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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22587160">Can't you take anything serious?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shurb/pseuds/shurb'>shurb</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amnesia, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drug Use, Fluff, Gore, Height Differences, Humor, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Sickness, Smut, Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:15:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,661</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22587160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shurb/pseuds/shurb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As any normal person would do after they found their family next to gone and their world in literal pieces, Malcom MacQuoid starts to pursue his dreams, and do what he could not do before: crafting his own little world; and that as the General of the Minutemen. Of course whilst on his way to find his lost son.<br/>Surprisingly this new world appears to suit just his element, and so does one inhabitant of this wasteland.</p><p>But there is a little problem standing in his way to solve all the problems piling on his back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robert Joseph MacCready &amp; Male Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Male Sole Survivor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sanctuary's Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey, guys.<br/>Just to tell you: if you're interested in leaving suggestions to this story, feel free to do so. I might just add them and gift that chapter to you as well; knowing how much more entertaining I find it when the author sometimes includes the reader's little daydreams about the characters.</p><p>Have fun!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Introduction of Malcom MacQuoid, and his first baby-steps into this unknown world.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There will be a time jump after this, skipping the most boring parts of Malcom's interactions at the start.<br/>This chapter is short and only to inform the reader of his current situation.<br/>Angst will pick up quickly in the next chapters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcom felt an odd tingling sensation running over his skin as his body began to return to consciousness from having been a frozen fish filet. He took a deep breath, the cold stinging in his nose, and the air visible that he breathed out again.</p><p>He didn't recognise the coffin he was laying in. <em>Oh god, was he being buried alive?</em> What an end. To escape his supposed asphyxiation he hammered against the glass in front of him with balled fists. He could barely feel doing so from how fucking cold it was, his hands numb. The coffin suddenly made a hissing sound, the door slowly lifting off of the box, with loud mechanical screeching noises. Someone needed to oil that. Malcom stepped out, and felt his legs giving away under his weight. He fell hard on his knees, not having much of any reflex. "Hello?", he called out, but there didn't seem anyone to be around. He lifted himself off the concrete floor and checked out the room, these fridges, some boxes for papers and a terminal.</p><p>He knew what these freezers were. Cryolation chambers. He had read about them sometime, but couldn't recall when exactly. He walked over to the terminal and read through the files.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>MacQuoid</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Chamber 9</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Malcom MacQuoid, status unknown</em>
</p><p>
  <em>cause: system override in life support for cryo stasis</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Chamber 8</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nora MacQuoid and infant Shaun, status unknown</em>
</p><p>
  <em>cause: system override in life support for cryo stasis</em>
</p><p> </p><p>This name... it felt familiar. Thinking about it, he didn't know his own name. Malcom quickly walked to the pod he had been in and checked the number. Number 9. He was Malcom MacQuoid. He turned around, and checked out the face of the person in the other pod. Their face wasn't seen from the position they were laying in. But he did not recognise them by their hair either. He attempted to push the button next to the pod, and just like his, it opened (who had opened his though?) Whatever the case, he had to find out what the hell was going on. No one woke up in a place and didn't know their name. Unless-- before Malcom was able to continue his train of thought, his gaze fell upon the figure before him. A beautiful woman with next to white skin, coal black hair and narrow eyes the color of amber. But the colours were all layered by the sheet of death. The person in front of him wasn't alive anymore, as he could confirm once turning her to him a little, revealing the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. Malcom couldn't help but think how well she looked with red, even if it was her own blood. He looked down. This was pod number 8. Someone with his surname. He gently took her hand, wondering if this was a coincidence or possibly his girlfriend.</p><p>The sole survivor felt a cool sensation brush his skin when taking Nora's thin hand. A ring. He wore one, too. Which meant...</p><p>A numb sensation ran through his body like a tsunami, with only his brain suffering the force of it. He forgot his past, forgot the possibly most important person in his life. And if the computer was right, then he had had a son as well.</p><p>He sat down in front of the pod, just looking up at the woman he considered an angel for some reason. A slight urge to call her that. Ironic, as it seemed she now was up in heaven.</p><p>__________</p><p>Malcom wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he wouldn't have minded taking a slumber forever; with the first thing to greet him after a dreamless rest: his dead spouse. He wasn't sure if he wanted to get up. When suddenly a thought crossed his head. Where was Shaun? He was supposed to be in there with Nora, but he didn't see anyone else in the pod.</p><p>Maybe whoever was here with him had taken him somewhere else, and not let the poor infant die of the cold. "No, that is garbage. These things had been designed for any living being. As well as infants," he told himself. He stood up. His wife had been murdered, his son was gone. It wasn't too far off to consider that he had been forcefully taken. So he knew what to do now.</p><p>He walked to the door, ambitious to find out what had happened here.</p><p>After a short while of following the halls passable after the door he noticed a window with some odd stain on it. To satiate his curiosity he stepped closer, only to find the stain suddenly trying to attack him through the glass. The man yelped out in surprise and stumbled back before seeing that the thing was actually not able to reach him. "A giant cockroach. Great, if the small one's weren't enough to deal with already. At least now they can't hide as well."</p><p>He smiled to himself, grabbing a conveniently placed security baton and checked out the room to the right. He was sure cockroaches had been much smaller before. Maybe some sort of mutation? Was he in a lab?</p><p>The terminal in the room he was searching gave him more than a few answers. He was in a vault, nuclear fallout had happened, which was the reason he was down here. But apparently he had not known that he would become frozen to pass the time. And there had been some sort of stress going on down here. Lack of food, authority being a dick as usual. At least 81 days had passed. So where were the people who wrote these notes down?</p><p>__________</p><p>Malcom felt relieved to soak up the rays of the sun. It was as if he hadn't seen sunshine in years! He breathed in deeply through his nose and opened his eyes once they got used to the brightness. The smile that had crept onto his face vanished again, seeing that something was very, very wrong, besides all the skeletons he had found down in the vault after fighting his way through these giant roaches.</p><p>He had been here before right? The nuclear fallout had destroyed everything! All houses were either crushed or in a poor state, with no windows or holes in walls and roofs. He quickly ran to the little shed next to the platform to see if there was anyone there. Nothing and no one. It was quiet. So deathly quiet in this world, it felt like the silence could deafen him. The man found himself wandering along the path towards the destroyed town. He stopped when setting eyes on the skeletons in front of a metal gate leading to the vault he had just come from. Something... was sad about this scenery. Malcom chased the thought, the feeling; anything to help him find out what the hell happened besides this fallout! But just before he saw the slightest glimpse of crying people, white flashed before his eyes, and he bent down holding his head. <em>Fuck, it stings! </em>The stinging was relentless, and in quick pulses; which then turned to pulsating, and the pulsating to a light migraine. He had to stay a little longer in that position he was in, with hands now on his knees, eyes looking at the ground. The man groaned once his body had calmed down, and saw that it was already late afternoon. How long had he stayed in this position?</p><p>He sighed. No matter that. He had to find something to eat, and drink- judging by his growling stomach and dry mouth. The first few houses still standing had some good things: a comic, Nuka-Cola, Blamco Mac and Cheese. Deciding to stash the stuff in the seemingly unused house that had to belonged to a "Rosa" turned out to be handy. After all, he needed both hands to shoot, and his reflexes to dodge these flies' attacks that came after him in the next home he explored.</p><p>He had first stomped into the house, expecting it to be empty. That theory of his turned out to be rather wrong when suddenly a giant insect shot its larva at him. Malcom jumped aside and shot a couple of times at that disgusting fucker. It fell to the ground, some parts of it glowing in an orange-yellow tint. More could be heard flying towards him now, most likely alerted by the shots. He jumped over the little barricade someone built of old furniture and fired, in hope to at least scare these beasts enough to not fly over it and get too close. His hands were shaking, but he managed to kill the two off without reloading his 10mm pistol.</p><p>The fight was over. He was not made for this. Shooting, and fighting. Keeping calm while one was being attacked with gross stuff. His heart rate was probably going too fast, feeling it beat up to his throat and making him shake even more. He looked down at his hands. He had been lucky to not get hurt, except a couple larva bites. Thinking of those he should take care of them soon.</p><p>"I look like a lighthouse during a storm with this blue suit," he noticed, and looked around for something less betraying in all the green and grey surroundings. The only thing both comfortable and warm was a pair of jeans, a shirt and some leather jacket. Bonus: it looked clean.</p><p>As the afternoon turned to the evening, he wandered back to the "Rosa" house, and grabbed a bottle of Gwinnett Stout, cooked himself some Salisbury Steak over a makeshift fire, and hopped on the sofa.</p><p>So many things felt familiar, but whenever he tried to grasp at a memory it faded away. The taste of the beer, of the meat. Even the clothes looked like something he would have worn. He had found them in the house across, so he thanked whoever had lived there for great style.</p><p>He would pack up a backpack he found earlier with some useful things for tomorrow, and then check if his theory of being the only man alive could actually be confirmed. He already felt loneliness creep into his skin. He knew no one could keep their sanity forever if there was no social interaction. So that was it: Concord, his next stop.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Pretty Man, walking down the street</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Who is this man just strutting into the Third Rail like he owned the place?<br/>MacCready didn't like him. He didn't like his smug grin, and the way his pale blue eyes shone when he sweet talked Magnolia. Not one bit.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want to thank a friend of mine, who helped me edit the first chapter. It was helpful as it needed to be better. Much better. But this is what this book is for: practicing writing skills. So thank you, man. You know who you are.<br/>And of course this book is also for all the angst- and love-thirsty readers. Whom I thank if they even considered clicking on this second chapter.<br/>Have fun!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MacCready was sitting at the bar in the Third Rail, brooding about his and his son's future. Barely anyone wanted to hire him anymore thanks to the gunner's untimely hints. In one moment he was hired by a ghoul lady, who wanted to travel to some settlement further south, and in the next one of the gunner's stepped into the VIP lounge and babbled on about how their group would make their way harder than fighting a deathclaw. MacCready didn't believe that crap, knowing well he was way better at shooting than those ass-...jerks. But the woman had believed it, and was quick to put the little satchel full of caps back into her pocket, much to his disliking.</p><p>But that gunner having visited him here meant other consequences to follow: the mercenary group now knew where he was. And that meant even less caps and some possible brawling if not murder.</p><p>The Third Rail was rather full tonight, but luckily people were sitting at the sofas and chairs, gambling and talking, and not coming near him. He was not in the mood to small-talk at all. What did lighten his mood a little was Magnolia's performance; accompanied by a few musicians playing live (MacCready would never understand how one could make a living off making music in the Third Rail). She sang just right to make him forget how awful the beer tasted. He had had only a couple of bottles, knowing how pricy the sh- drinks costed. He leaned heavier on the bar, elbows propped up on the surface and his palms holding up his head. He already felt wrinkles on his forehead, or was it just the stuff Charlie served here, making him imagine things? He rubbed the spot to ease the tense muscles.</p><p>He was pulled out of his thoughts when hearing the unmistakable whistling of the Goodneighbour-folks, both of the mocking and flirtatious kind.</p><p>"Oh wow, a celebrity!" Sarcasm.</p><p>"Is this really a place you want to be at?" Genuine concern, but hidden behind a tone laced with a light threat.</p><p>"Watch out, Magnolia. This man might be competition!" Flirt.</p><p>He turned around to see what happened. Did one of the Diamond City snobs visit? Maybe to hire him? Nah, unlikely. They were too soft for a business such as his as well as soo humane. What he saw instead was a man wearing a tuxedo and newsboy cap. The clothes looked clean, just like his skin. Didn't seem like he got his hands dirty often, if at all. His stride reeked of confidence and smugness. But somehow he felt like the man didn't think higher of himself than the people around here either. He was usually good at reading people, so this uncertainty aggravated him. What he could see was that the man was too small for the suit. Only slightly, but the shoulders pads were a nice touch that accented his broad chest. Glasses, a narrow nose, high cheekbones, thin lips and only the beginning of a beard did make him look quite attractive, compared to the usual drifters passing through here. When he stepped closer and closer to the bar MacCready was able to see that his hair was a dark brown, only making these mysterious blue eyes of his stand out more. It was as if time was slowing down, his heart racing when he finally registered he was staring. Just like when taking a hit of Jet, time was beginning to move faster again, too fast for him. He didn't know what just happened, but he didn't like it. And he didn't like that man. Not at all. </p><p>The man asked for a couple beer, which Charlie handed over once that guy paid him, and sat down on the stool next to his. MacCready looked back to the bar surface, in the position he had currently practiced before this "Prince Charming" arrived.</p><p>"MacCready, right?", he heard a hoarse, deep voice ask. He looked to his left, seeing it was that snob who wanted to talk to him. "Depends on who's asking."</p><p>"Me, I guess. Malcom," he smiled, holding out his hand, "Malcom MacQuoid." MacCready was not going to fall for this charismatic grin. He huffed in annoyance, refusing to shake the other's hand: "Listen, if you want to make a new friend, I am not the person you should be talking to." "I hope you change your mind about that, considering I want to hire you. This is going to be teamwork.. if you decide to take my money." He gently padded the pocket of his tuxedo, then gave a jokingly dramatic sigh, getting back up from the stool and adding: "But since I need someone to rely on to not leave me for dead nilly-willy, I might as well take my caps somewhere else." Shit! He needed this job, he knew that. His pockets were painfully light, and this man appeared to be smart enough to ignore the bad talk about him around town.</p><p>"H-hey, wait!" MacCready attempted to not sound too desperate, but that could just as well be seen when he held onto the man's sleeve like his life depended on it. It kinda did. He still scolded himself for doing that. <em>Great, now he will haggle me to hell and back.</em> Let alone how embarrassed he was about doing this without realising until it was too late. Malcom turned around again, slowly, and looked into his eyes. MacCready's face felt hotter by the second, the warmth starting at his neck before even reaching the tip of his ears. <em>If that ass-..guy doesn't stop that soon I might as well shoot and loot him. </em>If the man saw him blushing, he didn't say anything, because all he did was sit back down, handing him the second beer he had ordered. "Well, let's discuss the-" "250, and no haggling," MacCready interrupted him, not needing to hear how he wanted less. Malcom chuckled, grabbed his own beer, and opened it with his teeth. <em>Damn, no worries about losing a tooth. </em>"Why are you laughing?" MacCready hated to be laughed at, especially by him. It was as if he knew something he did not. "I might tell you sometime," the smug snob replied, "once we're partners, maybe? So, you expect 250 for your service? I'd like to see how much truth the rumours hold first. Meaning I will give you 200 for your time, and 50 when I am satisfied with your work." MacCready was unsure of what to do. On one hand, Malcom made a good offer, but on the other, he didn't like him.</p><p>Ultimately the pro's of working for him weighed heavier, so he gave in. "Alright, boss," he smiled to himself, emptying his already open beer. Malcom's smile only seemed to become bigger, now seeming almost genuine. He pulled out a couple satchels from his pocket, handing them over to him. "I'll expect the satchels back by the way."</p><p>As if on cue, Magnolia finished her song, the little jazz band stopped playing and the people began clapping their hands. Magnolia really added to this place's quality. She walked over to Whitechapel Charlie, sitting on the bar stool next to Malcom, taking a break. MacCready began counting the caps and storing them in his own makeshift wallet.</p><p>"Excuse me, Miss?" She turned to Malcom. "Good evening. What is a man like you doing here in Goodneighbour?", she leaned an elbow on the bar, her hand holding a glass of water. "Oh, I woke up here. Just me, my underwear.. and regret," he replied. <em>Fucking charmer. </em>MacCready rolled his eyes. She laughed, commenting how great this would work in a song.</p><p>"But really, there is something special about you, isn't there? Hmm.. it is that charismatic smile and attitude of yours, I can feel it." "You caught me," he held his hands up defensively, "but I have to say, you sing really well."</p><p>"Thank you. Now it is my turn to answer questions, isn't it?"</p><p>"Is singing a natural talent of yours, or have you learned it somewhere?"</p><p>"I am self-taught. There aren't many places to learn this, I'm afraid."</p><p>Malcom appeared to be in thought for a moment. By that point MacCready had counted all the caps and put them away. "Would you mind me singing a song?" That was... unexpected. "What? I've got a croaking boss?", MacCready half-joked, who wouldn't be surprised if that guy sounded like shit. "I'm sure Charlie wouldn't be against it," Magnolia answered, Charlie adding from behind the bar: "As long as I don't have to pay him, or he chases the customers away." Malcom didn't seem fazed by the words of encouragement and got up, walking up to the little band of pre-war ghouls, while MacCready was busy opening his third bottle for tonight.</p><p>He seemed to talk with the musicians a little, then stepped up to the microphone. Immediately the people snickered, unsure whether this was going to be good or a total flop. The band started playing a familiar tune. Even the sniper was interested in what was bound to happen. But once the man started singing, he noticed how much clearer his voice was, and how casual he sang the lyrics of "Pretty Woman", as if he had been performing all his life; even if his talent was about a 7/10.</p><p>"Pretty woman, walking down the street<br/>Pretty woman, the kind I'd like to meet<br/>Pretty woman, I don't believe you<br/>You're not the truth<br/>No one could look as good as you<br/>Mercy"</p><p>The word mercy had a certain pep to it. But during the song, Malcom was looking at him more often than the other people. One could mistake it for him looking at Magnolia, but he felt the steady gaze. Felt it both weigh him down on his seat and lift him off of it.</p><p>"Pretty woman, don't walk away, hey<br/>Okay<br/>If that's the way it must be, okay<br/><br/>I guess I'll go on home, it's late"</p><p>He saw Malcom unsuspiciously put his hand in his pants' pocket, the one away from most watcher's views, only slightly pulling out something he recognized; his wallet!</p><p>"There'll be tomorrow night, but wait<br/>What do I see?"</p><p>The merc got up from his seat, walking over to end the show and get what was his, "Is he walking back to me? Yeah, he's walking back to me" He froze right in front of the stage, realising what he just did. His eyes widened in embarrassment, the spectators behind him laughing. <em>I don't care right now. What a genius ASSHOLE! </em>He put on a fake smile, glaring up at Malcom, who looked down at him innocently. Oh, but he knew what he did.</p><p>MacCready stomped back to retrieve his beer and walked off to the VIP lounge to flee the jokes of the others. He was definitely blushing now, and it could be seen. How humiliating! He dropped himself heavily on the armchair in the room, taking a few gulps of his drink. Medicine for his wounded ego. He must have been in thought for a while, because the next thing he noticed was that damn jerk sitting down on the sofa next to the chair he was sitting in, his wallet being gently placed on his lap. "You... are lucky if I don't shoot you this instant," he growled between clenched teeth. "Oh, c'mon, I didn't sing that bad."</p><p>MacCready jumped up from his seat, almost yelling at that infuriating man: "<strong>You know exactly what I mean!</strong>"</p><p>"Can't you take a joke?" he leaned back, relaxing. "Not at my expense!" he argued back.<br/>"Hmm.. I bet you actually liked my little serenade. You just cannot admit it,” he exclaimed, his voice rising accusingly. He was still joking.</p><p>"Grr.. I- You..," he was speechless. He sat back down in his chair, picked up his wallet and put it back where it was. "I totally expect 100 caps now. Assh- jerk fee; in case your bad humor makes me want to shoot myself." "Sure."</p><p>The younger man relaxed a little at that. He still crossed his arms, and.. goodness, was he pouting? He quickly finished half of the bottle. He needed alcohol to deal with this guy.</p><p>A few minutes passed when Malcom spoke up again: "I'm sorry if this hurt your feelings."</p><p>"It's fine.. I guess I was more embarrassed about the fact that you managed to pickpocket me without me noticing. Anyways,.." he wanted to change the topic, " What is your plan for tomorrow?"</p><p>The conversation ended just as quickly as it started, and in the same way; unpleasant. Two ugly gunners entered the lounge. Winlock and Barnes. Great, they had finally found him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cheapest of tricks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Winlock and Barnes arrive at the Third Rail, and MacCready is not happy to see them.<br/>Worst of it all, his boss might flee the scene due to their empty threats, and he would be left broke again!<br/>But the evening takes an odd turn.<br/>Plus MacCready travels with Malcom through the Commonwealth, with some “minor” inconveniences.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I already had published a way better end to this chapter, but this website managed to somehow delete the last part, making me look like a FUCKING IDIOT that forgot to finish writing this chapter. I could fucking hang myself. Hope you enjoy ending 2.0, don't mind me raging in the back.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winlock and Barnes entered the lounge, and MacCready turned his nose up as if he had suddenly been hit by an odour of the worst dog pile in his life. Not like the two gunners smelled good in any way, but there was also the pure disgust of their actions wafting with them that he despised; the reason he had left them and decided to open his own little mercenary business.</p><p>"Can't say I'm surprised to find you in a dump like this, MacCready," Winlock greeted. Malcom kept sitting where he was, eyes trained on the two men before him. He grabbed a silver-plated lighter from his pocket, as well as a cigarette and lit it, not stopping his intense stare. "Not like you're standing in it right now, either," the sniper retorted.</p><p>Winlock ignored his remark and turned to Malcom, demanding for him to leave. "Forget it. This lounge isn't yours," he said, matter of fact. Barnes, the less brighter candle of the two didn't seem to like his attitude towards them. Not like many were dumb enough to trifle with the Gunners, thus this treatment angered him more than when MacCready did it— an ex-gunner. The man was about to grab his gun from its holster, MacCready already grabbing his own rifle, but he watched as Barnes suddenly stopped any movement. He wasn't sure what had stopped him at first. The only one that idiot would listen to was Winlock and he hadn't said anything. "Oh, we wouldn't want to attract too much attention, now would we?" Malcom smirked, pressing the barrel of his gun hidden behind the pocket of his tuxedo to reinforce his request for this conversation to go peaceful. <em>This guy got reflexes...</em> MacCready couldn't help but be a little impressed. His opinion from before of this guy not getting his hands dirty already washing away.</p><p>His boss took up the talk where they had left it, not looking patient any longer: "So, what do you need? And make it quick, we are busy."</p><p>Winlock growled, clenching his fists. There were other words he would have loved to spit out, but considering their current situation, he did as told: "As we found out, you are still operating in gunner territory. This is not going to work for us." "Too bad, I don't take orders from you anymore. So why don't you take your girlfriend and walk out of here while you still can?" MacCready pointed to Malcom, who was still casually smoking, "My boss isn't very patient, as you may have noticed." He grinned smugly. Barnes yelped: "Winlock, do we really have to listen to this shit?" It was obvious the man was trying to not make any sudden moves.</p><p>Winlock only huffed, being more in control of his emotions than the goof he considered his working partner: "Listen up, the only reason we haven't filled your body full of bullets is that we don't want a war with Goodneighbor." "Kinky," Malcom chimed in. Winlock ignored him.</p><p>"See, we respect other people's boundaries... we know how to play the game. It's something you never learned."</p><p>"Glad to have disappointed you."</p><p>"You can play the tough guy all you want. But if we hear you're still operating inside Gunner territory, all bets are off. You got that?"</p><p>"You done already?" MacCready was getting a little worried. Malcom looked relaxed and not very intrigued, but what if this was just show? He needed this job, and letting these fuc- jerks talk any more would lessen his chances for a proper payday further and further.</p><p>"We're done.. for now. C'mon, Barnes." He turned around to leave, and just as expected, Barnes did as told, but not before adding: "And you will be done, too. Next time we meet." <em>Great. Goodbye caps.</em> They finally walked back to the main room. Malcom grabbed the cigarette butt he had put out sometime during that conversation and flicked it into the back of the collar of Barnes' jacket. MacCready tensed up, wondering if the two would change their mind about turning both of them into Swiss cheese. But all the sidekick did was scratch the spot on the back of his neck.<br/>
Both of them waited a little longer before moving even a finger, even after the gunners had left.</p><p>Once the air was less tense, MacCready chuckled exhaustedly, leaned back in his chair again and hid his face behind his hands. "Hey, MacCready," Malcom got his attention. He must've looked pretty worried. What his boss did next though both made him laugh out loud and almost cry: "You.. You're crazy!" The man had pulled his hand out of his pocket, revealing the "gun" he had been holding. Only that the barrel had been his fingers all along. "Oh god," the merc felt better already. Even if his boss seemed insane, he damn well had wits and smarts. And a good portion of luck. "How did you know they would fall for it?" MacCready asked, curiosity lacing his voice.</p><p>"I didn't."</p><p>__________</p><p>”So, we are going to the Back Street Apparal for what reason again?” MacCready inquired to know from his boss, speaking quietly. They were currently in a dangerous zone, which was basically everywhere in Boston, but especially near Boston Common. He didn’t know what the rumors were about this place, just that people didn’t come back from there, which was probably the reason there were no truthful rumors.</p><p>”We are to rescue a settler from a raider gang that holed up there, and bring them back to County Crossing,” Malcom answered in a normal tone, seemingly unaware of the danger lingering around somewhere.</p><p>The two had gotten up early. He wouldn’t normally get out of bed— in this case rather sofa— this early, but Malcom found it a good idea to wake him up while the older man still had to change his clothes, and he himself had already been ready to go. The man had switched the tuxedo for a green shirt and a leather jacket, the jacket being worn over the combat armor that protected his chest and arms. The one’s on his legs could be worn over the fabric of the jeans; and due to this guy seemingly weighing even less than MacCready, there was no problem of it being a tight fit with the pants. And of course the man carried a backpack on his back, to stuff all the useless junk in it they stumbled over on their way.</p><p>”And what do we get from it?” He questioned, not liking the answer that came: “Gratitude.” “What?! Why?” The sniper asked further, not liking the thought of helping people for nothing worth in return. “They will offer their services in return to the Minutemen, meaning more fighters in case we get in some serious trouble.” <em>And why was that so special? Some old farmers that couldn't aim a gun if the target was right in front of them.</em> MacCready wondered, but didn’t ask Malcom again, seeing that the man was giving the shortest of answers to him. <em>Not much of a talker when he doesn’t have to be, huh?</em></p><p>They had decided to take a turn and get closer to the water when seeing a raider gang holed up somewhere they had wanted to pass through. A cold breeze blew past them. It was getting colder, and MacCready was not particularly clothed for such temperatures. His duster was literally turning to dust as the years went on. But he would not complain about something minor as this. He wanted to show that he was prepared and fit for all, so he wouldn't embarrass himself again in front of Malcom. Malcom did not seem affected by the chill, or did he hide it?</p><p>Malcom was pleased by MacCready's ability to not talk too much. He liked just being quiet, walking around, being able to focus on the task at hand; being survival. But getting lost in thought was his weakness, and a dangerous one, too. While he was usual aware of his surroundings, he did not hear the very quiet footsteps of an enemy a few feet in front of them. The two were walking next to the water, rows of broken or boarded shut houses looming over them across from it. While evading the raider camp was a wise decision, it had not been wise to go along this path, with barely any possibilities to hide in case of an ambush.</p><p>Malcom barely registered the whispered "in three, two, one", before a little group of raiders jumped out from an alleyway leading back further into town. "Fuck!" MacCready yelped and raised his rifle. The vault dweller had been carrying his heavily modded .44 in his hand as well, knowing that every second in a fight counted. One of the raiders went straight for him, holding up the baseball bat to smash his bones "into pulp", as the asshole claimed. But talking and fighting did not go together well — except if MacCready did it—, so he had an easy shot. He closed one eye, calmly aimed at the man's face, and pulled the trigger. The recoil of the gun was strong, but these shots were powerful enough to end a Supermutant with one bullet; if aimed right. The raider dropped to the dirty ground. Malcom quickly took a few steps back to get some distance between them. During the few seconds that had passed, his companion had taken out another one, who had been holding a pipe pistol; but no time to use it. Three left. Two went for the Sole Survivor, both carrying firearm, whilst MacCready was left with someone fighting in close combat.</p><p>He had had barely any time to reload his rifle, when the woman swung at him full force with a crowbar, growling like a feral dog. He yelped, dodging the probably very painful attack by quickly jumping aside, the crowbar hitting the broken stone with a loud clank. Unlucky him had not seen that he had already been standing near the edge of the path, and realised too late that the step went nowhere but air. He felt himself falling for a split second before being stolen the precious air his lungs always craved so much, his body being surrounded by freezing, irradiated, dirty water. He gasped for air, but all he breathed in was fluid, so he attempted to get back to the surface, where a blood-thirsty raider would be waiting for him. But where was up? He could barely see, and getting back out of the water would catch him unprepared and kill him. Or he would drown. <em>Great options.</em> So he swam where he hardly saw the bubbles go up. He coughed and spluttered his lungs out when he finally could breathe in air again, his lungs burned. He wondered where the lady with the crowbar was, as his prediction of his own death had not come true yet. He desperately wiped his eyes from the disgusting gunk that collected on the water and now sat on his face, glancing up to see the raider struggling to fight off Malcom, who was standing behind her, holding her own crowbar to her neck and pulling back as hard as he could with a seemingly injured, bleeding hand. From his position MacCready could only watch, not tall enough to grab onto the edge of the narrow street, and his rifle laying up there somewhere.</p><p>Thankfully Malcom had the same idea, and attempted to kick the gun down to his partner, while still holding the woman where she was. "L-et me.. go, asshole!" she croaked, elbowing him in the ribs, the guy huffing loudly. His boss was getting impatient, MacCready knew; it was a similar look to the one when Winlock and Barnes were taking up their time with a useless threat. He ripped the crowbar away from her neck, and out of her hands, taking a little step back to prepare for a frontal assault. MacCready still saw how elegantly the man moved, even while aiming and hitting the raider right on top of her head, the sharp point of it burying in her skull and brain, killing her instantly. The last body dropped dead.</p><p>”Finally. I thought you would let me take that bath forever!” the sniper joked, holding his arm up as Malcom held his own towards him to help him out. “Nah, I am all for you losing the smell of wet dog,” he grabbed MacCready by his wrist, and pulled him up with all the strength and adrenaline left within him, groaning out: “but that won’t happen in this water.”</p><p>Once the younger man was back on solid ground, he realized how fucking colder it got! Or was it because he was wet? He suppressed the urge to shiver when another breeze passed, the hairs on his skin standing straight. “Oh yeah? Not like you smell any better than me,” he chuckled.</p><p>His rifle was back over his shoulder and his hands soon in the pants of one of those raiders. To loot it.</p><p>”Judging by your weight and appearance, I’d say about 40 percent of your mass is dirt.”</p><p>”Yeah,” he sang playfully, “and you—“ he looked over to Malcom, who was sitting on the dusty ground, leaning back against the wall of a house. Shocking was, there was blood on his right hand, and above his left hip. The merc hurried over on instant, kneeling down beside the injured man. “Oh, god. Are you alright?” He asked, not sure whether to look at the wounds himself or if he would make it worse by touching it. “Don’t worry. Just tired. These bullets barely hit."</p><p>Is what Malcom would've answered if he had been listening. But he just sat there with a look of being far, far away.</p><p>
  <em>The only thing he saw was grey, yellow and red; so much red. He was on the battlefield with his comrades, hearing screams of agony and the unmistakable storm of bullets hitting sandbags. Those he and his friends were hiding behind. "<strong>We have to go! It's not safe here!</strong>", one yelled over the noise. Everyone agreed, except him. "No! They will shoot us on sight!" he tried to make them listen. But them knowing his history of chickening out and having been brought back to the army by force made them ignore what he said. They got up, shot a few bullets before a couple of the soldiers fell to the ground beside him, their dead stare burning into his flesh. The other's moved on. Malcom wanted to follow, to not be left alone. But he could barely move. His hip hurt, his hand felt numb. He was going to die here. He was trapped crouching behind these dirty sandbags. His breathing quickened. Why was this happening? He just wanted to go home, back to Nora. Away from all this destruction. He could not do anything but watch the last of his team being slaughtered by masses of bullets. He couldn't breathe, as if someone was strangling him. He drew in short breaths. A bullet grazed his torso somehow through the cover and he yelped, holding the spot, feeling warm liquid running past his hand. It was burning like fire and numb at the same time. He leaned forward, one shaky hand leaning on the dusty ground to hold himself up while the pain got stronger, pulsating throughout his entire body. </em>
</p><p>I'm sorry, Nora.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Cold and Sick of it All</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>MacCready and Malcom finally have some rather forced alone time, giving them the chance to get to know each other better.<br/>The settler is waiting to get rescued and brought back to their home.<br/>And MacCready will have a bad time through most of it. Luckily his boss is there to save the day!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Hey, Malcom</em>.” The voice was distant and echoey, but the more the Sole Survivor focused on it it became louder very quickly. The voice was familiar, though couldn't stand a chance against the familiarity of whatever he had just seen. Those were memories. He had been a soldier before. But that must have been pre-war, as there weren't any real wars or soldiers anymore. Not to mention the lack of mutants, or raiders in his dream.</p><p>"Ugh.. what?", he asked, sounding crankier than he intended. All he saw was blurred, but he knew he was conscious enough to hear his surroundings again. "My glasses, where are they?", he quickly asked, not liking the thought of being as blind as a molerat very much, especially since he could tell by the soft sway underneath him that they were most likely on a boat. He heard light shuffling of clothes and in the next moment he was handed the object he requested. He put them on with his left hand, his right one feeling quite painful. He was laying down on something soft, and looming over him was MacCready with a worried expression on his face. He was being unusually quiet, and it surprised Malcom to find that he missed the sniper's cheeky remarks, and sass.</p><p>"What happened? You look like another bomb hit Boston," Malcom said, grinning smugly, not yet sitting up. He still felt the aftereffects of a migraine. The same kind he had felt the day after stepping out of that cursed vault; stinging pulses right over his forehead. He must have had that damn headache while he had slept though, and he was thankful for that.</p><p>"Ha ha, but no. You got shot. The bullets grazed your hip and one went through your hand. As far as I can tell no bones got broken," his partner elaborated, but there were more questions in his eyes, on his tongue, waiting to be spoken aloud. But something was holding him back, Malcom could see.</p><p>"And what happened afterwards?"</p><p>"I'd like to know that from you. In one moment we are looting the corpses of the raiders that ambushed us, and in the next you're having a seizure," MacCready's frown got bigger as he said that, the light wrinkles on his forehead again. Oh, how Malcom hated these wrinkles. The man was still so young, and already carrying the weight of a man even older than himself with him. He felt the urge to tell him he was alright, but knew that would make matters worse. So he sighed, deciding to open up a little about himself. He sat up slowly, registering the pulling sensation of the healing wound in his side. His assumption of having taken shelter in a boat was confirmed. It was dark and cold, the night having crept up on them already. He was glad MacCready had sense enough to not make a fire on this thing. Who knew who it would attract next? Or what. But being on the water, or near it like they were, made the temperature sink even lower.</p><p>"What the hell were you thinking giving me your coat?" he nagged, sliding off of it and handing it back to the man who was obviously shivering. MacCready huffed: "Sorry for being nice." He threw it back on, sitting down against the wall across from where he was laying. Away from him. The Sole Survivor would not admit how that stung, ever so lightly.</p><p>He looked at his right hand, inspecting the way the palm was bandaged. Then his hip. He lifted his shirt, laughing a little at the fact that the other had used a compress from his little first aid-kit he always carried around. The man had seemingly wanted to be extra sure he wouldn't die on him. "I gotta say, you didn't do a bad job with this." Silence. "And thanks for saving me, MacCready. I really am happy to know that I can count on you." He looked over to the man, his features being accented by the moonlight that shone in through the glassless windows of the boat, and making a small blush on his cheeks visible. The other relaxed a little. But there was still that worry.</p><p>"About me having a seizure... I think it was just a very wild dream I had." The merc raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. "No really," he tried to convince him, "I.., y'know, cannot particularly remember my life before a few weeks ago. I woke up in a vault up north realising I did not know one thing about myself." He found that talking about finding his dead spouse and realising he was a father of a kidnapped son was not going to help the situation, and thus left it out. Maybe a story for some other time, if both of them were still alive and a team.</p><p>"You mean you lost your memories? All of them?" He nodded, sitting against the rusty metal cabin wall on his side. "And what does this have to do with your dreams?"</p><p>"They are memories. Way back before the war. I know this sounds crazy, but I am from before the war, and most likely used to be a soldier fighting for the well-being of this country. That was what the dream was about."</p><p>The eyebrow rose higher and Malcom had that weird picture of it flying off soon in his head. "That indeed sounds crazy. How is that possible? The bomb hit about 200 years ago. And no way are you a ghoul," the sniper questioned.</p><p>"I was cryonically frozen for that duration of time, in that vault." "That must've been <strong>so</strong> boring. Nothing to do for two centuries, except laying in a fridge," MacCready sounded like he was tortured by that thought alone. Malcom laughed, again seeing this child bubbling up inside his partner. "I didn't go through this consciously. I basically just slept." "Were you alone?", the younger man asked.</p><p>"I suppose. Many seem to have gotten in with me, but only I got out of there." He had been very lonely for a little while. And he had hated it. Which was why he had searched for people to accompany him. And why not someone with some useful skills, like the mercenary (not to mention he couldn't stand Preston's constant upbeat attitude)? MacCready seemed in thought, uncertain of something. Then he whispered: "Sounds horrible." Malcom shrugged, claiming it had been okay. Lying it had been okay; especially with these vivid flashbacks that rendered him useless for hours.</p><p>They sat in silence for a while longer, both not knowing what to say. Malcom presumed that his partner had a lot on his mind and a lot to say, but something was holding him back from opening up. Maybe he didn't trust him, which the Sole Survivor understood. Opening up was often, but not always, accompanied with establishing some sort of trust and friendship. And a friend could quickly die here in the Commonwealth, causing unnecessary pain.</p><p>"Enough of wasting time!" Malcom decided to end this uncomfortable silence, and stood up, "We got a person to save!" "<strong>Are you crazy</strong>? Your wounds need to heal, not be pulled open again!", the sniper argued, but as charismatic as Malcom was, he was ambitious and stubborn. "Who knows when they will decide to kill them? The settlers have asked me a couple days ago, and these raiders planned on coming back soon." And so they packed the few things they had laying around, and finally continued their journey.</p><p>__________</p><p>"You take out the guy on the platform, the other raider can wait; they are armed for close combat. I'll take care of the turret on the roof," Malcom whispered, kneeling behind a car for cover, MacCready next to him. The other nodded, readying his rifle.</p><p>They got in fast, his plan having gone perfectly. The hardest part was starting now. They didn't have to trifle with everyone, but even one shot could alarm the whole place. They had opened and closed the door as quietly as possible, crouching the whole time to minimise the chance of being seen. Lucky for them, there was a three sided counter in the middle of the room, giving plenty of opportunity to hide... until MacCready slipped on the gas that was all over the floor, which was part of a tripwire waiting to be set alight by the grenade hanging from the ceiling. Malcom watched in horror as the man landed on is back, his rifle hitting the ground and creating a loud clanking noise. The sound was worse than when he dropped a spoon to the kitchen floor at home, having gone for a midnight snack (his brain was so nice as to hand him such useful dreams). Here it was less a case of being caught by tired parents, but caught dead by enemies. Bloodthirsty, unforgiving enemies.</p><p>The two raiders that had been chilling on the other side of the room turned their heads, but didn't get up yet. Both held their breath. "Ugh, another one of those ugly mannequins must've dropped," a woman commented. A man spoke up: "I hate these things. Always make me think there's someone standing there."</p><p>Malcom glared at MacCready, urging him to quit laying there and get back up, all in signing him. MacCready could tell by the sharp movements that his boss was angry. He did as told and got up on his feet, grabbing his rifle. Great, now he had to clean it.</p><p>"Mac, I will try to pacify them. We will get closer and jump out. If they make a move anyway, we shoot them and possibly alarm the whole building."</p><p>"And if we shoot them on instant?" he whispered back. "Then we definitely alarm them," Malcom answered. Alright, he couldn't argue with that.</p><p>They split up, both of them following the small passage on either side of the counter. MacCready noticed the hardwire trap on the floor, and disarmed it slowly, with slightly shaking hands. He was still shivering, even though it was relatively warm in here. He continued onward, until he got as close as possible without being seen, and waited for a sign of his boss to jump out. It didn't take a minute when Malcom jumped out from behind the counter, pistol raised and aimed at the woman's head, saying in a calm manner: "Hands up, assholes!" MacCready had taken this as his cue to do the same, holding his own rifle up, barrel focused on the other raider. Both raised their hands, the woman's back turned to them. "You two are gonna be real quiet, got it?" Malcom disengaged the safety of his gun.</p><p>"Now, get up <em>slowly</em> and walk over to the wall to your right, hands on it!"</p><p>"And no tricks, or the wall will get a new layer," MacCready added, feeling pretty proud to be on Malcom's side right now. The two did. The vault dweller didn't turn his eyes away from their hostages while ordering: "You stay here and watch them. If they get any dumb ideas, shoot them!" "Will do, boss." Now MacCready wondered if the other even knew where the hostage was. But he didn't ask, just waiting and doing his job. He barely heard the man's quiet footsteps on the wooden floor. Then a door opened quietly, then another. He was curious to turn around. Then it was silent again.</p><p>The sniper's arms got tired, his muscles achy. <em>God, I'm not getting out of shape, am I?</em> His whole body was still shivering and it felt like it had gotten worse. Wouldn't be unlikely for him to get sick, especially after that bath hours before. <em>Oh no... </em>He felt a weird itch in his nose, building up. He didn't close his eyes, even as his body was trying to make him. But the urge to sneeze was stronger, thus forcing his facial muscles to contract and making him close his eyes. The man quickly opened them again, not caring if there was snot hanging on his face. There wouldn't be a chance to worry about that if he was dead. But the hostages were still there, not seeming like they had made a move except jump a little at the loud sound. He sighed in relief.</p><p>"Alright, we're done here," Malcom's voice suddenly spoke up from behind him. He didn't turn around. The next words weren't directed at him anyway: "You go outside and wait there." Footsteps hurried out the door. His boss stepped next to him, cringing. MacCready blushed, quickly using the sleeve of his duster to wipe his nose.</p><p>"C'mon, we got no time to waste." The younger man nodded and walked backwards to the door. Malcom imitated the other's movements. "You are gonna be quiet about this, got it?" He still had his gun raised, "Because if not, I <em>will</em> find you, and do worse things to you than you did to that woman." His voice was lower than before. He appeared disgusted, and full of rage, if his clenched jaw, fists, and strained words were an indication.</p><p>When they were outside Malcom urged him and the settler to run back east, where they had come from. They would pass the bridge there and go straight for County Crossing.</p><p> </p><p>The way was mostly passed in silence. MacCready had the chance to steal a few glances to the woman they were accompanying. Suddenly he saw what Malcom had meant with torturing the raiders; the girl must've been 19 years old at most, bruises littered her body. They had cut off some of her fingers, her hands now bandaged. <em>Probably that's why Malcom took so long. She must have still been bleeding.</em> And he had taken care of them. <em>Disgusting. There had been no need to hurt her. But </em><em>that's raiders.</em></p><p>By the time they reached the bridge, the girl was crossing her arms, attempting to keep warm with only her shirt and pants on. "I'd say we stop on the other side somewhere and search for a still intact house to rest. It'll be safer to travel during the day," Malcom announced. The man took off his jacket and handed it to the settler, who gratefully put it on. <em>Fucking charmer.</em> MacCready found himself almost jealous. Not that he was gay for his boss, but this little sign of care was something he missed. Friends, or Lucy. They were all gone or somewhere in the Capital Wasteland. He was all alone in this big world. Even Duncan was possibly leaving him soon. Not to mention the lack of compassion throughout the Commonwealth. It was just that... Malcom was so different. He had compassion (even if a little too much for his taste), he had wits and great looks- "MacCready!"</p><p>The sniper was pulled out of his thoughts. When he looked around to find the source of the voice that had called him, he found they had already passed the bridge, and apparently walked so far to not see it anymore, now only broken down houses surrounding them. When had he gotten lost in thought? And so strongly to even become easy prey for the occasional monsters lurking around in the shadows of the night.</p><p>"MacCready, c'mon, lay down already! You need to rest." Malcom. He turned around, seeing the other crouched down in front of a makeshift fire pit that still had to be kindled inside of one of the houses. "I will stay up for the night and see that nothing attacks us unexpectedly."</p><p>The merc walked over with weak knees. He felt like sleep wasn't such a bad idea, with his body trying to give up on him. He was definitely getting sick. His head was hit with waves of migraine-like aches, his eyes and mouth were dry, and his nose was runny. He sniffed back the snot threatening to crawl out, preventing another embarrassing moment in front of the vaultie. "Alright, boss," he answered, his nose obviously sounding stuffy. If Malcom noticed, he didn't react, just lit a piece of wood up and placed it in the fire pit. MacCready laid down next to it, waiting to finally be able to warm up. His rifle was placed next to him, away from the fire.</p><p>He heard the click of a lighter some time later, making him open his eyes (when had he closed them?). "Mind sharing one of them?" the younger one asked the man who was currently taking a drag of the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. Malcom was leaning against the doorway, his side profile visible for him. "Hm... I don't know," he pretended to think intensely about his decision by scratching the beginning of his beard, "Is it allowed to give underaged children cigarettes?"</p><p>MacCready sat up, offendedly replying: "<strong>Underage?!</strong> Next to your old as- behind, I might look younger, but I am <strong>not</strong> underage!"</p><p>Malcom put his hand over his heart, leaning to the side as if someone had hit him: "Oh, Mac, don't be so mean to an old man like me. Respect your elders a little more! I might suffer a heart attack if you talk so insolently."</p><p>He rolled his eyes, laying back down on his side. "Well?" he inquired, hoping to finally get the answer he was hoping for. The other sighed, got up and walked over, handing him what he had asked for and lighting it for him.</p><p>"What service," he joked, drawing in a breath that was laced with the taste of smoke and nicotine. The waking effect the thing had made him realise something: "Where is the girl?"</p><p>Malcom had sat back down in the same spot, looking out into the night. "She is upstairs. I thought it would be proper for a gentleman as myself to offer the only bed in the house." <em>Yep, fu- friggin' charmer.</em></p><p>"But enough talking. After this fag you're going to sleep."</p><p>MacCready raised a brow. "Faggot?" Malcom looked back over. "I mean the cigarette. It is also called a fag. Not faggot."</p><p>"Oh... okay." Silence. "That's weird."</p><p>__________</p><p>"Thank you so much for bringing her back, Mr. MacQuoid. We thought we had lost her forever!" the father of the rescued girl exclaimed, voice elevated due to the happiness he must have felt. They had brought her back by noon, with some lesser disturbances like a bloodbug, or bloatfly.</p><p>From the moment MacCready had woken up until now he knew this day was not going to be great, and it would get worse. Upon opening his eyes, he realised he had missed his watch and let Malcom do all the work, making him feel quite useless. Just after that, he felt the cold from yesterday again, but about ten times worse. All his bones were so sensitive, it was as if the slightest hit would break them. His muscles ached, making every move more difficult with the shivering. Overnight someone had placed an old blanket over him (though it hadn't helped), but he wasn't sure who it had been; it could not have been his boss. Why would he care if he had been cold? He would plainly tell him to suck it up. Or make fun of him again.</p><p>"You're welcome, but have you thought about joining the Minutemen yet? Your help in case of trouble would be greatly appreciated," Malcom took off his backpack and placed it on the ground, "Not to mention the protection I would be able to provide you with, lessening the chances of a kidnapping happening ever again!" He smiled brightly, trustworthy. <em>Oh, the man is trustworthy, alright. If not just as crazy.</em> MacCready grinned to himself as he thought that, thinking back to the scene at the bar with Winlock and Barnes. It already felt so long ago, even if it had been only a couple days. The old man nodded, replying with an even brighter smile: "Of course! After what you've done to save our little Sasha we couldn't deny you this offer."</p><p>"Well then, I have some things in my bag, but I do hope you have some materials here as well. Then I can get right to building some turrets and walls," Malcom told the man, who then advised him to use the workshop next to the broken down house, and some junk laying around. The old truck would certainly be of interest of him, with all the steel. "And of course my family will help you, just ask us."</p><p>The man walked away, leaving him and Malcom standing there. His boss turned to him, wide smile on his face. He looked so happy. "Guess we'll crash here for a few days," MacCready concluded. "Yep."</p><p>MacCready put the strap of his rifle on his shoulder again, which had been threatening to fall off with his slumping posture. "You okay? You've been acting weird since that night on the boat."</p><p>He looked up, again realising he had been somewhere else with his mind; but this time with no idea what he had been thinking about.</p><p>"Oh, uh... yes. I'm fine. I'll help you with building if you want. Not like there's much else for me to do," he offered, not wanting to lay down and laze around. A shiver ran down his spine, and somehow this reacted with his stomach, it suddenly feeling like it was doing jumping jacks. <em>Ugh. </em>He bent over, hands leaning on his knees. He wasn't sure what was happening around him, but he heard a muffled voice, felt cold hands on his arms. His vision was getting blurry, and for the life of him, he would not dare to stand straight with the content of his stomach slowly making its comeback. His stomach contracted and he tasted bile in his mouth. He spit it out, not feeling the strength to hold it down. It burned his already dry throat. As he attempted to breathe in there was a persistent scratching in his throat and he coughed. But it didn't help.</p><p>"Mal-," coughing, "Malcom, I-," MacCready was trying to jumble some words together to.. he actually was not sure what he was going to say. He felt so tired and weak, cold and now also hot. His legs were shaking and he feared he wouldn't be able to stand for much longer. And then he closed his eyes, hoping to open them again and see this was just a weird dream.</p><p> </p><p>"MacCready?" Malcom set his hands on the others shoulders in an attempt to hold him steady. God, he was so pale, with dark rings under his eyes. "Are you feeling sick? Mac, talk to me!" But all the other did was groan in queasiness, placing his hands on his stomach protectively. <em>He is shivering like crazy. How haven't I noticed this before?</em> The older man had done good in holding the younger one up, with him threatening to fall face-first into the dirt as he leaned forward further in a subconscious attempt to not get himself full of puke. The retching noise made Malcom cringe slightly and it went on for a while, alarming the settlers around. They walked over.</p><p>"Is he alright?"</p><p>"If he needs to lay down, we can bring him into the house. There's a bed he can sleep on."</p><p>Malcom nodded, keeping calm, despite the panic that nibbled on his heart. He may know the man for only a little while, but he already considered him less of an acquaintance and more of a friend- if not a friend just yet. And he didn't like watching his friends feeling bad, and him unable to do anything about it. He even felt guilt, because he should have seen the signs sooner. Falling into irradiated water in late-fall and not drying up properly would get one sick. That was so obvious, but he had been so engulfed in his own thoughts and plans that he had forgotten to make sure MacCready was okay.</p><p>The sniper's coughing brought Malcom back to reality, as well as the mentioning of his name. Mac sounded so miserable, and he felt a light sting in his heart. "It's gonna be okay. We'll fix you right back up!", he promised, not caring if he heard or not. Just as the settler's other child- a strong, young man of approximately 20 years- was stepping over to help the General with carrying his companion, said companion's legs suddenly gave away, leaving all weight on him. "Fuck-," he yelped, quickly wrapping his arms around the passed-out man to hold him up. With his face so close to MacCready's now, he sensed how much warmth radiated off of him. </p><p>
  <em>A simple cold can kill people in the Commonwealth. And if he dies it's going to be my fault...</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Smell of Vanilla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>MacCready has some healing to do.<br/>He doesn't like being stuck on the bed, nor Malcom's pampering.<br/>And he finds out a few things about his boss that impress him quite a bit.<br/>But why does his boss seem so tense at times? He should aid him in.. calming down a little.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First attempt at smut in a long time. Since I know a friend reads this: have fun, dude. Laugh at me next time we see each other! ;D<br/>Oh, and the smut is at the end of the chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>God, he felt awful. He was not conscious enough to open his eyes, but was able to hear voices around him. They were too far away for him to understand though, and while trying to chase after this anchor attaching him to reality, the more he fought the darkness, the deeper he fell into it.</p><p>There were cold hands on him at times, then something wet. Something soft would cover his body, and then he would be freezing without it in the next.</p><p>If he were able to give a review on his condition, these short experiences would count to the best. Because when he was under again, there were these awful dreams. These awfully vivid dreams.</p><p><em>"What should we do, Mayor MacCready?" a young voice called out. The spoken-to person turned around, catching glimpses of faceless heads with tiny bodies on them. No, they were children, with faces he had began to forget. Faces he once knew oh-so well in Little Lamplight. "<strong>We have to </strong></em><b><em>fight back! We ain't gonna fuckin' lose against these muscle-for-brains mutants! We will defend what is ours!</em> </b> <em>" he heard himself yell back, determination strong in his loud pitch. "You," he pointed to a little group of children that had stood guard around the cave, "take good cover, and shoot at them if they're not too close. I don't want to lose anyone here today!" The other children knew the game of cat-and-mouse already, and scrambled away to do their designated jobs. The infirmary was the most important part now. MacCready turned around to hurry back to the entrance of the cave, but what met him there was not a supermutant.</em></p><p>
  <em>"OUT WITH MACCREADY!!!"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"GONE WITH THE MUNGO!"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looked down at the faceless entities. His heart hurt, seeing how his friends wanted to just throw him out there, without protection... without anyone else there with him. "C'mon, guys! I'm still the MacCready you know. I won't ever turn into one of those mungo-heads out there!" he had tried to argue. But no, they wouldn't have it. They had just given him some food and water, and thrown him to the mongrels! That was all the thanks he had gotten for being their trusty mayor for so long! Anger, hot and strongly beating in his chest, built up, almost making him try to kick the barrier down. But he couldn't move, even if he really decided to do as he had pleased. His body was not under his control, as if invisible chains had wrapped around his wrists and ankles. And then the tightness in his chest. He couldn’t breathe! He yelled out, but all that left his dry throat were coughs, ripping his lungs to shreds and shaking his body with earth-quake intensity.</em>
</p><p><br/>Waking up was a start for the day. Or was it night? Wherever he was, it was dark. Still terrified from that dream, MacCready began to flail around his arms, pushing and shoving off the person trying to kill him. But it didn’t work. He was too weak and this minor struggling left him panting. But at least whoever was there had stopped what they were doing, and he could take a deep breath in again.</p><p>”Hey, MacCready,” he felt a cool hand on his shoulder, holding him tight, secure. And then the person gently patted him on the back, aiding him in coughing out the water that they had tried to give him to drink while he was asleep. He knew the voice. It calmed him down quickly, aware that Malcom was not going to harm him; not intentionally anyways.</p><p>He rubbed his from sleep crusted eyes and noticed that he was only wearing his briefs. Further realization hit him once he leaned back a little more, feeling a clothed chest against his body. His eyes widened and he pulled the blanket up to his shoulders.</p><p>”For fu— what the heck are you doing?!” He questioned, feeling quite invaded in his privacy here. Malcom got up from the bed slowly, helping the sick man to lay back down. “I was trying to give you some water. You wouldn’t wake up for days and you needed fluids!”</p><p>”W-what are you talking about?” Mac felt a queasy wave of.. something run through his stomach. He wasn’t sure how he got here, and not knowing what’s going on didn’t help the steadily building nausea. He held his stomach and rolled onto his side to make the dizziness that started go away. It didn’t do much.</p><p>”Um.. bucket?” Malcom asked, and the sniper was grateful to see him walk off already without waiting for an answer.</p><p>The younger man was soon handed the needed item and he sat up just at the last second.</p><p>There was barely anything to leave his stomach, with apparently not eating or drinking much the last.. “Days? You mean I- I just slept through?” He was freezing again. And his head pounded. Despite all these uncomfortable factors, there was sleep nagging at his eyelids and limbs again, weighing them down. He forced his eyes open, shook his head a little to wake himself.</p><p>”Yeah, you must’ve caught a bad bug. I don’t know what you have, but it doesn’t seem dangerously contagious, ‘cause I’m still up and running,” Malcom crossed his arms matter of factly. He watched MacCready struggle to stay awake and decided it was better if he were to give him water now. “Think you can drink something?” He already sat down next to Mac on the bed and held out a small glass of purified water. He wouldn’t have the other drink anything irradiated now. Actually, he wouldn’t want his partner -and friend- to consume anything irradiated, ever. In the Commonwealth there weren’t many options at times though. But he had that choice now.</p><p>”Ugh,” he whined, doing his best to at least prop himself up in his elbows, “hand it over!” He held out his arm, and Malcom carefully gave the sick merc what he asked for. It looked pretty miserable, how MacCready tried to hold the glass as tightly as possible, and it still seemed to slip through his grasp. The vault dweller didn't comment on it, but just helped by setting his own hand on top of the other mans’ and guiding the glass for him.</p><p>Malcom knew how humiliating this could be for someone like MacCready, but the best he could do now was to just not make fun of him. Oh, how he used to think as a teen! Thought that he didn’t need help from others. Ever. And was he wrong.</p><p>
  <em>”Malcom, why won’t you listen to me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>”Because there is nothing to listen to!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His best friend and him were arguing again. About how he would help him stand up against those bullies from school. Those who beat his ‘skinny ass’ about twice a week. All because he was so thin, tiny... and a coward; something he would realise only years later.</em>
</p><p><em>”Don’t you see what they’re doing to you? You’ve been shutting yourself off of friends, from me! </em> <strong>Damn it</strong> <em>! Even from your own goddamn family!” He stomped his foot on the ground to maybe finally bring his point across and through that thick skull of his.</em></p><p>
  <em>Malcom saw Andy stand in front of him, a desperate look on his face. “Please, I will even help you stand up to them, Malcom. I don’t care what it takes! I just see that you’re slowly losing yourself, and it’s horrible to see that happen to a friend!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He never got over what he did to Andy. He never forgave himself. He didn’t deserve forgiveness.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>”Then don’t consider me your friend. There, you don’t have to worry about your coward acquaintance anymore.” Cold. Calculated. He used to think that all life’s problems would go away, if one were to put enough brain in and switch it for the heart. Why had he acted like this? All because of the bullying? Or was there—</em>
</p><p>”Malcom? Hello? You there?” He saw a hand swing in front of his face, trying to get his attention. He looked down to find MacCready still shivering, empty glass in his hand. “You kinda... spaced out.” The man looked like he was about to pass out, head laying heavily on the pillow, eyelids drooping.</p><p>”..Yeah, sorry. Was just... thinking," he replied, feeling a little dumbfounded himself about what he had just seen. And exhausted. Tired of this world, tired of being a mystery to his own person. He felt an itch, something familiar nagging in the back of his mind. But he knew that whatever his body craved wasn't here. He got up again and walked over to the chair were MacCready's things were placed and took off his leatherjacket, the armour -piece by piece-, his shirt and pants.</p><p>"Woah, woah! I know I look pretty good right now in just my underwear, but this body is only lookin', no touchin'!" MacCready chuckled, having watched his boss undress.</p><p>The older man smiled lightly, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. "Don't worry, I don't have many caps to spend for this luxury-service right now."</p><p>The merc watched his boss walk over to the bed. He wondered why he never took off that darn Pip-Boy. He was not going to steal it or something. He would attempt to beat all the man's high scores on the little holotape-games though.</p><p>He yawned audibly and closed his eyes, hearing the little clacking sound of Malcom's glasses being placed down on the nightstand on his side, sensing how the mattress shifted down slightly by his weight. "This is gonna sound weird, but since we don't really have intact windows, nor a proper heater, we should lay closer together for warmth."</p><p>MacCready snorted and rolled over, looking into the other's eyes: "Is this an attempt to flirt with me?"</p><p>Malcom sighed and turned around, facing away from his partner. </p><p><em>Geez, who shi-crapped in his bowl of sugar</em> <em>bombs?</em> Mac was confused by the sudden mood swing. His boss had seemed so at ease the past few days, flirtatious jokes being thrown between the two of them with no bad intentions behind them. And now he was insulted? Had he said something wrong?</p><p>Maybe he was so off-turning to him that he was angry by the suggestion? Well, ouch, and he shouldn't have said anything then, because he was indeed freezing.</p><p>So he waited. Waited for the other's breathing to slow down and turn even, so that he could sneak closer. It took a few minutes, and the cold prevented MacCready to fall asleep, but luckily Malcom appeared like he was already knocked out. So he slowly laid closer, inch by inch to not get caught. He managed to lay with his back against the others' and curled up, finally calming down enough for his body to force him back to sleep. He knew he still had enough of a fever to dream again, but he could only hope his brain would spare him. And he hoped to wake up in the morning. Maybe he would take a walk, help Malcom with whatever he was doing. Laying around for days, asleep or not, sounded like torture.</p><p>When he felt something warm wrap around his chest he was already too tired to open his eyes, but he knew that the his boss had turned to now make him the small spoon in this position. The hot breath against the back of his neck, the embrace and the rhythmic breathing aided his sleep majorly, for he did not have another nightmare that night.</p><p>__________</p><p>"Oh, c'mon, I'm feeling way better already!" MacCready protested against Malcom's order of laying in bed "for now". For now had been four days ago, as he had found out the next morning. It was now early noon. His morning had been spent eating breakfast, which was pretty exhausting, since he hadn't been hungry, but his boss had insisted on him finishing the small bowl of sugar bombs, followed up with a to-go shower using a dirty rag and mildly dirty water. He was now dressed in his pants and shirt, but Malcom was preventing him from getting his duster to go outside.</p><p>"You're still shivering, let alone you don't have anything warm enough to wear that would protect your weakened body outside," the other reasoned and sighed, rubbing his face with his non-bandaged hand. "Then give me something warm enough to wear! I can't stand being inside all day. And I should get some fresh air, don't you think?"</p><p>Malcom didn't look convinced, but in the end he handed him his duster, plus his own leather jacket, now having only a shirt to keep him warm. "Don't.. you need that?" the boy asked sheepishly, already putting on the clothing article before it would be taken away again if the other changed his mind. "I'll be out sweating my ass off in an attempt to build proper defences anyway." And with that he left the room. <em>He looks so on edge.</em> MacCready followed him. He noticed how comfortable the jacket was, if not for the smell. Even earlier when he woke up with Malcom basically hugging him -strategic purpose!- he had noticed this odd smell. He wasn't smelling clean by any means, but it was obvious he was trying to keep himself that way. And still the scent was calming to him. What he could tell was the smell of sweat, gun powder and something like... sweet. Similar to the Fancy Lad Snack Cakes he liked so much. But he hadn't seen Malcom eat these yet, so that couldn't be it. He would find out what it was.</p><p>__________</p><p>It was afternoon, and Malcom was still working outside at the workshop, tinkering with some turret. MacCready was sitting on a stump, cleaning his rifle, still wearing the other's jacket.</p><p>His eyes more often than not took little peaks at what his boss was doing. At times he even got lost in thought, imagining what the man had done before the war, if he was so talented in building all kinds of things already. In a few hours he had built two turrets, and helped the settlers with putting up the walls and properly strengthening the support-pillars. And in the progress of this muscle-straining task MacCready had the opportunity to gaze at the lithe muscles of his arms. He was not muscular by any means. Probably not even strong, but exactly that was what impressed him: still getting shit done, even with his genetics not playing along well!</p><p>But working hours with little breaks wasn't good for him, and so the merc decided to interrupt his fiddling with an enhanced targeting card. He was sitting crosslegged on the ground, glasses resting on his cap.</p><p>"Hey, boss, don't you think it would be good to call it a day? I'm sure you'll force me to stay in bed again tomorrow, so you got enough time to finish the last turret," he suggested, his now clean rifle hanging from its strap over his shoulder. He put his hand on his hip.</p><p>Malcom either didn't hear, or ignored him, because he didn't react in the slightest. Mac rolled his eyes and walked closer, gently tapping the other's leg with his foot. Malcom jumped at the contact, squinting up at his partner. "What is it?" he said grumpily. <em>Wow, again so friendly!</em></p><p>"I just wanted to tell you that you should call it for the day. It's getting late," he answered just as annoyed now. The man didn't look pleased, but set the card aside, and got up.</p><p>"Fine. I have to cook dinner anyway," he added. Malcom put on his glasses, took off his newsboy cap and ran his hand through his hair. "Next time we go through Diamond City, remind me to visit John. My hair is already reaching my ears."</p><p>"You might wanna get your beard trimmed as well, you'll freak the kids out looking like a yao guai."</p><p>"Ah, making fun of my beard now, are we, when we can't even properly grow one oneself?"</p><p>"Oh, I would never joke about your food-collector." The two walked back to the house.</p><p>"Shh, Mac, he might hear you!"</p><p>The two laughed about their dumb jokes. It was nice seeing Malcom relaxed again. Before they entered the house, Malcom stopped the sniper abruptly, his hand resting on Mac's shoulder, but his eyes focused on something further away behind him. He turned around, realising what his boss was looking at; a radstag doe. "Give me your rifle for a second," Malcom ordered. "Why? Can't I shoot it?" He didn't like the thought of Malcom not trusting his shooting skills. He was actually feeling pretty offended, and it was worse because it was this man doubting that.</p><p>"You're still shivering. Anyways, I wanna see if I can still shoot." His glasses were put on his hat again, hand already open to take the requested item. MacCready sighed and handed his gun over, if not only to see if his boss was bad at shooting from afar. He would laugh at him if it got away.</p><p>Malcom knelt down, the butt of the gun resting against his shoulder, one hand holding the receiver, the other with its finger on the trigger. He closed his left eye, looking through the scope and held his breath. A few seconds later a loud shot resounded throughout the place. Some settlers ran outside the house to see what had happened. MacCready huffed, seeing that the older man actually got it. "Guess you're still a hotshot." "What can I say? I'm only giving my best."</p><p>__________</p><p>Evening. MacCready had helped Malcom prepare the radstag. When they had gone over there with another settler to help them carry it back to the fire pit he had seen that the bullet had almost missed. He wondered how blind his boss was without the glasses. What if they broke sometime during battle? That would be pretty dangerous.</p><p>The settlers, the merc and his boss were all sitting around the lit fire now, the night about to creep up on them. Everyone was happy to eat something after this hard day of field work. MacCready had to admit, the meat tasted pretty good. As well as the cooked tatos and carrots. Malcom called it "goulash". He had not seen someone put this kind of meat in a soup often, if at all, and it confused him as to why he hadn't just roasted it. But he supposed that was just Malcom: going extra steps to make sure people were happy. MacCready was sitting on the ground near to the fire to keep warm. Malcom was next to him, obviously searching for the same warmth with still only wearing the shirt.</p><p>He was talking with the father of the rescued daughter next to him: "You know how to make jerky out of this? Or anything else of the rest of the stag?" The man nodded. "We wouldn't want to waste anything. My wife volunteered to prepare the rest of it later."</p><p>"Vanilla!" MacCready said out loud before he could stop himself. The vault dweller turned his head to him, having heard what he said. He raised a brow.</p><p>"Uh... I just..," the sniper looked around to see if anyone else was listening, but everyone seemed to be busy with their own conversations. Then he continued: "I just realised this odd smell of your jacket. You smell like vanilla." He blushed, realising that this gave away his interest in finding out his boss' scent. Malcom chuckled: "Thanks. That's a good thing right?"</p><p>MacCready wasn't sure how to react. He didn't want to outright say he liked the smell, nor did he want to tell him he didn't; he didn't want to be mean. And it would have been a lie anyway. Why was he overthinking this so much? Malcom was still waiting for an answer? Was it too late to answer now? Would it look weird? "I guess it is. You could smell like brahmin's as- behind; what I'm trying to say is: it could be worse."</p><p>They sat for a few minutes more, finishing their dinner (MacCready was glad his boss didn't dwell on the topic), and then excused themselves to go inside and rest.</p><p>"Did you like the food? You looked so uncomfortable during dinner," Malcom asked, already starting to take off his clothes as they reached the room. "Yeah, I gotta say you cook pretty well for a mercenary."</p><p>"Pre-war mercenary, vault dweller and General of the Minutemen."</p><p>MacCready's eyes widened. "You're the.. <em>General</em> of the Minutemen?" Malcom turned around to face him, only standing there in his pants. The sniper hadn't really paid attention to Malcom's body yesterday or this morning, but he now could see that even if he was on the lanky side, there was a slight six-pack was visible. "Yeah, haven't I told you about that?"</p><p>"Must've slipped my mind while puking my guts out a few days ago," he shrugged, but then his eyes took on a colder expression: "But in total I barely know anything about you." He sat down on the bed, his hands propped up behind him so he was leaning on his arms. The other walked over, stopping right in front of him. From this perspective it seemed like he had gotten taller, and the merc couldn't help but ask himself how it would be to be kissed by him. Would he have to stand on his toes (he could <strong>swear</strong> Malcom hadn't been this tall a few days ago)?</p><p>The older man leaned down, making MacCready lean back a little in response, and put his hands next to each side of the younger man's hips. He stared at him intensely. MacCready's face felt hot by the powerful stare, making him feel naked despite still wearing everything.</p><p>The hoarse whisper sent shivers down his spine: "We could change that, y'know? We could get to know each other <em>very</em> well." Oh fuck, he loved this voice. The pitch it had gave his body the urge to just listen to all its orders. It sounded so trustworthy, too, but right now it had most effect on some other place in his body, and not just his heart; which was beating pretty fast.</p><p>"Um.. I," he struggled to find the right words while staring into the icy-blue's in front of him. "I never thought of it that way. I-I'm not sure if-" "Your call," Malcom interrupted and got back up to finish taking off the rest of his attire. <em>Asshole, just leaving me hanging here. And making me ask for it actively, too. But two can play that game.</em></p><p>He got back up, taking off the jacket Malcom had given him. "Hmm.. wouldn't that need both of our calls though?" he asked, his voice taking on a seductive tone. His back was turned to the other, but he knew the man was watching as he shrugged off his old duster, then his shirt. Without making a sound, Malcom walked over, slightly surprising MacCready by putting his arms around his waist, his head resting against the slightly shorter one's. "Well, I suppose I would be ready to 'open up' to you," he muttered, more busy with the task of palming Mac through his pants. He was getting hard already. When had he last gotten laid? He knew it was a while ago, if not for the fact of still being sad about the loss of.. no, he shouldn't think about this now! He could regret this in the morning. And it wasn't like he was cheating on her.</p><p>A quiet moan escaped his lips, but he couldn't care less. This was a time for pleasure, not embarrassment. And not like a moan was the kinkiest shit he had heard about.</p><p>"You sound so adorable," Malcom commented. Next thing he knew he was being thrown onto the mattress, his boss on top of him, pinning him down by his wrists. <em>He had certainly gotten stronger...</em> MacCready closed his eyes in pleasure when his neck was being assaulted by kisses, nibbles and even bites. But the bites were still careful, making it obvious Malcom didn't want to cross a line here. "You can be rougher, y'know?" "Oh, we're just starting," the other replied and bit harder this time, coaxing another louder moan from the man; the answer gave the sniper the concern that he wouldn't be walking straight the next morning. It both excited and scared him a little. Malcom sucked on the skin of his neck near his ear "Oh, that feels good...", then began to trail down further to his collarbone. Malcom had conveniently placed his knee between Mac's legs, giving him the opportunity to pleasure himself by moving his hips up against it. But this was getting nowhere! All clothes and no skin-on-skin?! Just as he was about to protest for them to 'get it going already!', the older man slid back off of him and began pulling off the merc's pants, handily pulling his briefs off with them. MacCready's hands instinctively went to hide his treasured parts behind them, a wave of hot shame running through him.</p><p>"What? Chickening out now?"</p><p>"No! I just expected a warning from a gentleman like you," he huffed, glaring at the vault dweller. "Oh, c'mon, I was going to see it anyway tonight. Why not speed things up like you wanted me to?" Malcom laughed, getting off the bed to get his own pants off; and to gaze upon the flustered mess MacCready was slowly becoming. "You look beautiful like this."</p><p>"Ha ha, very funny." The sniper rolled his eyes, but quickly focused his attention back to the body in front of him. When they were both as exposed as the day they were born, Malcom was back on top of him. The vaultie's dick wasn't much above average, but still looking like the best treat MacCready had had in quite a while.</p><p>"Look how hard you already are," Malcom wrapped his cold hand around the other's cock, gently squeezing it eliciting a sigh from the shorter one, "Will I even be able to have some fun before you will be done?" "How about I get you worked up as well?" Malcom licked his dry lips.</p><p>MacCready didn't need an answer. He sat up, pushing the man in front of him on his back and leaned down to do something he had actually not done before: suck someone's dick. "You okay with this?" Mac chuckled, not surprised to find the other still careful about consent and being all comfortable. "If you want to chicken out, <em>General</em>, just say so," Mac replied, but already put his hand around Malcom's member. He had felt how the other had tensed up ever so slightly when being called General. Did he like that? If he did, Mac would have a great time using this to his advantage.</p><p>Malcom sighed in satisfaction as the merc put his mouth around the tip of his penis, his tongue lightly brushing it before he dared to take more of it into his mouth. A hand gripped his hair, and the light pulling encouraged him to take it all, thus removing his hand that had been holding the dick. He wouldn't say it was a mistake -he had been curious if he could do this- but once reaching the base, his nose brushing against the black hairs there, he had to gag. He heard a restrained chuckle, followed by a: "Not such a bigmouth now, are we?"</p><p>He rolled his eyes in response, moaning so that the other would feel the vibration of it, while his hand sneakily searched for his scrotum on the underside of his testicles. He knew from himself that it was a very pleasurable part during sex or masturbation.</p><p>Malcom gasped when he felt a nimble finger massage his balls, his legs trying to kick out to escape the raw sensation, but really he didn't want to move. His dick was hard. The tip already pulsated lightly, and the warmth from MacCready's mouth just made it better. He leaned his head back, his hand still pulling on the other's short hair.</p><p>After a while of MacCready bobbing his head up and down in a steady rhythm, the Sole Surviver pushed his head off of him. "T-that should be enough." A thin layer of sweat could be seen on his forehead. The only light shone through the window that was mostly covered by a blanket. It was obvious both were thankful for the cover, not really wanting to be interrupted by a settler walking by and accidentally catching them in the middle of the act.</p><p>Malcom had expected to see Mac's dick already flaccid again, due to him getting most attention, but this blowjob seemed to have had a different effect on the sniper. "So, <em>General</em>, are you finally ready?" The shorter of the two already laid back down on the pillows, his arms resting under his head to give the impression that he was relaxed. But Malcom could see how excited he was. This was probably his first rodeo with a man. And his first time being bottom.</p><p>The General grinned at the nickname, crawling closer and grabbing the other by the hollows of his knees and bending his legs up closer to his chest. "Yes, my little sniper," he whispered, leaning down and kissing him passionately on the lips. While still not breaking the kiss, all tongue and teeth, Malcom lined his member up with the other's hole, cautiously pushing in to test if the other was able to take him. Except tensing up a little he didn't do much. He grabbed onto the metal bars that served as bedposts, moaning for Malcom to "get on with it already" against his mouth.</p><p>MacCready, as he had never done this before, found the intrusion a little painful, but Malcom was only pushing in inch by inch with every thrust. After getting used to the slight discomfort though, the thrusts were beginning to get more and more pleasurable. They finally broke the kiss, and Mac leaned his head back, moaning loudly as the other brushed against a spot that made him see stars!</p><p>"Y-yeah, right there!" he called out, hoping to be quiet enough for only Malcom to hear.</p><p>"You feel so good," the other huffed, still breathless from the kiss.</p><p>Malcom constantly hit his prostate, making him squirm, and an almost numbing sensation run through his legs. "I think I'm.. almost..," he panted, eyes closed tightly and hands gripping the bedposts firmly. A few more thrusts and he felt the other ejaculate into him. The warmth ultimately pushed him over the edge, his own cum getting a little on the top's and his chest. He quickly put his hand over his mouth, preventing a cry that was trying to force itself out in response to the pleasure.</p><p>His heart was slowly calming down again, the rush of blood in his ears gradually disappearing. Malcom let his legs drop onto the mattress when he pulled out and got off the bed.</p><p>The younger man protested: "Hey, where're you going?"</p><p>"I don't want to be a spoilsport, but we should get cleaned up and not.. leave the people here any surprises that might hurt my flawless reputation."</p><p>The General walked over to his backpack in the corner of the room and pulled out some clean rags, stepping over to the bucket with water near the door that they had used in the morning to wash off the worst grime that collected over time while being out in the Commonwealth. "I don't wanna... I just want to.. cuddle or something. Y'know, like normal people would do after something intimate like this!"</p><p>"It won't take long. And I promise you will get all the cuddles you could ever want after this," Malcom tried to compromise, already throwing a wet rag at MacCready's chest.</p><p>Just like Malcom had promised, it didn't take much time for them to scrub the impure fluid off of them, and the Vault Dweller was soon back next to the merc, pulling the thin blanket over their exhausted bodies.</p><p>Malcom wrapped his arm around the other like he did last night, this time also his leg laying over the others'.</p><p>"I haven't had this in a long time," he whispered, enjoying the silence of the night that was so rare out here, "I mean the intimacy. The trust I feel I can put in you. Too many people out there want to rip you apart both emotionally and physically." The Sole Surviver stiffened. "But let's not mind that now," the sniper quickly added, breathing in deeply and once again smelling the aroma of sweet vanilla on his... lover?</p><p>They would get to the bottom of that Pandora Box in the morning.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Mistakes. Many mistakes.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>MacCready doesn’t know what to do with Malcom anymore.<br/>First the awkwardness between them from their little love-making, then suddenly his boss becoming a giant, and an even bigger problem that catches up to the man from his past long ago.<br/>Not to mention what mental problems this poor bastard has.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is dedicated to a friend of mine, whom I hurt recently. I want you to know that I am sorry for what I did. And know that the things I said were actually aimed at me, or an attempt of making myself feel better, when in the end it didn't help, and I only hurt us all.<br/>I'm sorry.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They indeed, did not get to the bottom of this the next morning. They had just packed their things after thanking the settlers for their help and resources, and gone on their way to help other farms, or whatnot.</p><p>And MacCready felt hurt; like he had just been a one-night-stand for his boss. He wanted to ask what this had all been about, make sure that the silence between them was merely a lack of words. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Was he too scared to hear the answer? Probably. If this situation just wouldn’t sound so contradicting to his nature! He was compassionate, trustworthy. Not perfidious and.. a jerk. Sure, his jokes could be rather annoying, but he never dwelled on them, nor did he mean them in an evil way. And he didn’t get himself either. He wasn’t in love with this guy. But he just.. expected something different to come of this.</p><p>MacCready had watched Malcom all morning and noon, sensing how tense he was. He walked stiffer than he did before, his hand gripping the handle of his gun until the knuckles turned white, his forehead beginning to show more age than the light wrinkles around his eyes. Even his answers weren’t sarcastic anymore, nor relaxed and easygoing. Whenever the merc tried to coax more than a grumble from him, he had to make do with only a “yes” or “no”; open-ended questions were ignored entirely.</p><p>He couldn’t help but blame himself. For doing this yesterday. And for not talking about it now. The man was right in front of him, and he couldn't open his darn mouth!</p><p>They were taking a break during their way to Sanctuary, something that his boss appeared to be pretty proud of as he swarmed on and on about what he had done to the place. Apparently built it up from the rubble up to functioning lights.</p><p>That was when things started going a little bad... well, not really <em>little</em>.</p><p>It was dark, the night having crept up on them already. Malcom checked the outside of the old house they wanted to crash in for the night, while MacCready snuck inside, rifle raised in case of anything jumping out at him. After also checking the upper floor for any threats and not finding any he called out: "All clear." "Nothing around either," he heard the other yell back. The merc looked around the room he was in. A double-bed, some broken dresser, and in the corner a few toys like a baby rattle, wooden blocks or a baseball glove. Even a decent looking teddy bear. The downstairs had nothing much, except an old fireplace that another one had left them.</p><p>But there had been something else hidden between the rubble that blocked the window westward to the door. And Malcom had helped himself to it, something about the yellow box attracting him towards it. He just didn't know what exactly it was before opening it. But the contents made his heart race and brain stop functioning for a second. Again... this itch. He felt a wave of endorphins run from his head down to the tips of his fingers. Before his partner would see what he had found he put the jet and psycho in the pocket of his jeans and jacket. In the rush of finding something that had apparently meant much to him, he didn't realise how odd it was for seeing all kinds of drugs around the Commonwealth before, but not having reacted to them like that at that time.</p><p>Admittedly, he hadn't felt as tense weeks back. But now that the responsibility of being the General of the Minutemen was weighing down more on him, as well as the stress of having fucked his colleague and not being able to identify what he felt for him, the world was beginning to become too much again. He had paperwork to do now, and once he was back in Sanctuary. Preston could only help out for so long without his guidance; and he wanted to do everything <strong>perfectly</strong>.</p><p>"Hey, what you doing down there?" Malcom turned around quickly on his knees, feeling caught in the act of something he shouldn't be doing. MacCready was standing on the stairs, looking down at him. "N-nothing. Just looked for a good spot to rest," he lied, getting back up on his feet and brushing the dust off his pants. MacCready shrugged: "Not really a need. There is a bed upstairs."</p><p>”Alright. You can go rest if you’d like. There should be some Dandy Boy Apples somewhere in my bag if you’re hungry,” he advised, setting his backpack down next to the staircase, hoping to get some time for himself and “relax”.</p><p>”Nah, I’ll keep ya company,” The sniper offered, stepping down the rest of the stairs and kneeling in front of the fire pit to see what was missing to get a fire going.</p><p>Malcom sighed, scratching the right side of his jaw. Only paperwork it was then.</p><p>He sat down next to Mac, leaning over to grab a pencil from his bag, when a sharp pull in his muscles stopped him. He groaned, pulling his hurting right arm in again to rub at his shoulder and ease the tension.</p><p>He didn’t notice the merc watching him until he spoke up: “You okay?” Malcom looked over. He was unsure of what to do. Should he tell him what was going on? Even if he didn’t understand it himself? He had had these aches in his muscles and bones all day, making the task of getting back to Sanctuary as quickly as possible a little harder.</p><p>”I think I pulled some muscles,” he shrugged. Yeah, that could be it. He had been using his muscles yesterday while setting up the walls around County Crossing. It had been rather hard for him and his lanky frame.</p><p>MacCready watched him for a little more, before deciding that the fire needed more attention.</p><p>He grabbed paper and a pencil from his bag, sat down in a comfortable cross-legged position and began writing down a list of necessary resources:<br/><br/></p><p><em> <span class="u">Resources needed (Sanctuary)</span> </em> <span class="u"></span></p><p>
  <em>-steel</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-screws</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-circuit boards</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-ceramic</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-copper</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-oil</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The list went on for a little, with different things needed for different settlements. The usual things were needed, like circuitry; things he uses to build things with.</p><p>But also little things like coffee mugs or glasses mattered. People would be happier if their home also felt like one.</p><p>He had been so greatly in thought that he didn’t realize Mac wanted something from him, until the sniper threw a piece of the leftover sugar bombs at his head, making the General jump.</p><p>”Hey, would you listen to me already?” he inquired. He must have been writing this list for a while now, considering the fire was already lit, and the merc busy eating dinner. “What is it, Mac?” He sighed, rather unhappy of being interrupted while he just had been so absorbed in his work. He still had much to do. Many settlements needed help and he needed to take care of the troops he would send where and- "I know this sounds like a weird request," he was once again pulled out of his thoughts, "But could you stand up for me?" The Sole Surviver raised a brow, but obliged anyway, huffing as the aches in his muscles still hadn't subsided.</p><p>The mercenary also stood up. But now Malcom seemed to get what MacCready was going for here: he was about half a head taller than the other now. "You've grown, haven't you? Or is it just me?" The shorter seemed a little impressed, worried and jealous. "What can I say? I am at my best around constant radiation." He wasn't really worried. As long as there was no third arm growing out of him, and his mind still working.. kinda.</p><p>"You.. aren't worried?" The other's brows raised, "You are suddenly growing past your puberty, and all you can do is <strong>joke</strong>? This is worrisome, boss."</p><p>Malcom couldn't pretend to care. "I just ain't. But what does it matter? I'll start worrying once I start growling like a feral," he stated, going back to sit down on the floor, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his backpack. "So, how about you relax with me over a bottle of liquor?"</p><p>MacCready knew this was less of a question, but more an order for him to calm down. He did sit down and took the bottle when it was handed to him, but the concern for his boss was still there, hurried under more important matters: alcohol. Maybe when he got the other drunk enough he would spill what he really felt like about this.</p><p> </p><p>But it didn't come like that. Not because Malcom could hold his liquor. No, he could build turrets and look badass with his leatherjacket and .44, but he could not drink. After a few gulps and another shared bottle of vodka he was laying on the floor, complaining about his muscles hurting.</p><p>"Maaaac," he whined. The sniper was only tipsy, currently leaning back against the stairwell with the empty vodka in his hand, Malcom laying next to him with his back towards him. When the other didn't continue the shorter man spoke up: "What is it?"</p><p>"I'm fuckin' tired... an' cold.. an' I'm hurting everywhere." The merc sighed: "Stop complaining and go to sleep!"</p><p>"...can't."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>He was getting impatient with this giant baby. He wouldn't ever try to get this guy drunk again! He just looked miserable, and not happy like most others would do. He rubbed his face, beginning to feel sleep poke at him. MacCready shook his head, forcing himself to stay awake. Someone still had to put the fire out. It was still big enough to be burning for a couple more hours, and he hoped to be in bed in a few minutes.</p><p>" 'cuz... I dunno.. somethin's keepin' me awake," the other mumbled.</p><p>"C'mon, I'll help you up the stairs. I'm sure you'll fall asleep in no time." Mac stood up, grabbed his rifle and put the strap over his shoulder, then stepped over the unmoving body of his boss. When he saw the other's face he wasn't surprised to see his eyes open. He looked both tense and sluggish from the alcohol. Not like being drunk out here was one of the most dangerous things one could do. He held out his hand, which the other took, and helped him up. The walk up the stairs was difficult, with MacCready having to both stabilise himself and his drunk boss.</p><p>But they made it without trouble, and Mac could go down the stairs quickly to grab the backpack and put out the fire with some dirty water and dirt.</p><p>When he got upstairs again he was glad to see Malcom already laying down, and hopefully asleep. He placed the bag down carefully next to the bed before laying on it, rifle in hand. He wouldn't be caught sleeping without it. Not with ferals and the likes creeping around here.</p><p>"Y'know," he heard the other mumble, a light chuckle following shortly after, "you are a pretty poor bastard, aren't ya?" MacCready waited for him to continue, not feeling like putting up with the dumb shit he spew tonight.</p><p>"You were born in this shit world, with a life shitty enough to be paid money to kill people..." Mac didn't particularly feel hurt. But he didn't like to be judged like this. Reduced to only the things that strangers could see. "Damn, you probably feel shitty about your life, too. Constantly having to watch your back to not be screwed over by the people you thought you could trust. Thinking that actually no one likes you, and everyone around you just pities you; and that being the only reason they are around." MacCready was about to speak up, telling him to 'shut his darn mouth already!', but a quiet sniffle stopped him.</p><p>"But whatever. I just hate myself more. More than anyone else. And I know that no one around me actually enjoys my company. I can pretend all I want: I am not a person someone can like. I am an asshole. I hurt people I like, and for what? To push them away to not get hurt again? To not let them know what a failure I am, having a dead wife and kidnapped son, and being totally lost on the search."</p><p>MacCready didn't know what to say. He had lost his family? Was he on the search or not? Because currently he didn't look like he was doing anything against his misery.</p><p>"You hate me, too, don't you? ...oh, don't answer." The sniper wanted to brush this off as a simple drunk man's babbling, but he knew very well that these thoughts were real. A person's true self comes out with this poison. And it could hurt the person using it. And the people around them. And by the morning there would be the regrets. Regrets for something that they had both control over and at the same time didn't. The guilt would nag at them, making them question themselves, their sanity, what the <strong>fuck was wrong with them</strong>. MacCready knew this. He had a few drunk stories to tell. About the hate for himself, but also for the people around him, who used him, and those he accused of it. When in the end he really just hated himself most. Something so unexplainable. Because how could one fix this deep-rooted hate for oneself? It couldn't be touched or grabbed, smelled, seen. It was just there.</p><p>"... goodnight, Mac."</p><p>"Goodnight... boss."</p><p>__________</p><p>MacCready awoke when the sun was already shining. It looked beautiful outside, with a calm blue sky, no clouds. There even were some birds chirping. The mercenary attempted to roll over and check if his boss was still alive, since he hadn't woken him up yet, but something heavy on top of him prevented that. He couldn't help but smile, enjoying the warmth and sense of security that came from cuddling with the man. But then the conversation from last night came back to him. And the things he said. What he thought of him and what he thought of himself.</p><p>He pushed the arm laying over him away, and sat up, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. It was still cold.</p><p>The movement woke Malcom up and he groaned, holding his head as the first effects of a hangover made themselves present.</p><p>"Mornin', sunshine. How are you feeling?" he asked sarcastically, standing up to shake the last of his tiredness off.</p><p>"Very funny. Ugh, I feel sick. What the hell was in that crap?" Malcom sat up, rubbing his face. He groaned, and quickly laid back down again. "If you got to puke, let yourself. Once it's out you'll feel better," the sniper advised, grabbing his gun from the mattress and putting the strap over his shoulder.</p><p>"Yeah, I know. You don't gotta tell me that," he growled. <em>Yep, grumpy.</em> He watched his boss slowly stand up, leaning over to not strain his stomach too much. "Wow, you... got really tall," MacCready breathed out, in great shock to see the man be a whole head bigger than him. He smiled slightly: "You sure you didn't just shrink?"</p><p>"Haha, yeah, I am pretty sure." He didn't like his height much, so any jokes about it weren't welcome. But he knew already that there were quite a few coming his way already. They just looked so... odd next to each other. One <span class="u">slightly</span> smaller than average, the other much taller than average.</p><p>Malcom stood there for another couple minutes, then grabbed his bag and began the strenuous walk downstairs, hand on his stomach, the other used to lean against the banister. MacCready watched him, wondering if the man even remembered what he said last night. He wouldn't be surprised if he did, and just didn't mention it. It was the same two days ago.</p><p>"You hungry?" the man asked once he reached the bottom of the staircase, looking up at him expectantly. "Yeah, a little. Do we have some snack cakes?" To his disappointment the other shook his head. "If you finished the sugar bombs yesterday, then there's only some apples left. But I'm sure there is some of that stuff at Sanctuary. If we leave soon we should get there in the afternoon; considering all the minor disturbances creeping around the Commonwealth."</p><p>"Alright, let's go then."</p><p>His boss nodded and walked out the door, slamming his head into the doorframe. He cursed, before ducking a little to get through the damn thing. The sniper couldn't suppress the laugh that crawled up and out of his throat. He ran after him, still laughing and stating: "That was hilarious, how you just.. just walked straight into it without even stopping!" The other rubbed the sore spot on his forehead, chuckling: "I already feel a bruise forming." MacCready just laughed harder. Yeah, the advantages of being tall.</p><p>They left the abandoned house, walking up the road leading to Lexington.</p><p>On their way they shared a bottle of purified water, Malcom only puked once, and he looked a little fitter after that, so Mac let him be.</p><p>They were met with a little group of raiders soon, only a little distance away from Lexington. He expected Malcom to make them go another way and avoid a fight at all costs, or at least go clean about it with a few shots. But he didn't expect how the man went about this this time.</p><p>The two of them were hiding behind a car, the sniper having his rifle at the ready. "So, boss, any plan?" the younger one asked, antsy to get some tension out by killing those ruthless bastards a few feet away.</p><p>Malcom peeked over the hood of the car, then quickly ducked back down, ordering: "You go up to that bus station there, and hide there. You shoot them once I made the first move."</p><p>MacCready nodded, carefully sneaking the road back down a little to go around the open area. The bus station still had some old vehicles standing there, perfect for hiding and shooting from there. It took him a few minutes, not wanting to be seen and the station actually being a good deal away from the group, who were enjoying their meal over a makeshift cooking station with a pot over the fire.</p><p>He watched his boss through the scope of his gun, seeing him pull something out of his pants. It was a grenade. The throw was good, making the grenade land directly in the pot, only confusing the raiders at first as to what exactly just fell into their food. The loud sound was quickly followed with bodies dropping. The sniper watched as scraps of metal from the pot pierced their bodies, or were fully blown apart by the explosion. Next Malcom jumped over the hood of the car and ran over, .44 in hand and aiming it at anything that might still be alive. But the four raiders were dead. He kneeled down and looted the bodies while the merc jogged over. He was surprised by the way the Vault Dweller just walked around the brain matter and blood that was pooling on the ground, seemingly having only killed them for what little caps they were carrying.</p><p>Mac didn't mind, knowing how cruel these assho- jerks were. But the vaultie, didn't he still see them human enough? Having lived in a much less violent world before? Just killing them without them even seeing what was coming. It seemed.. more cruel than what he had done before.</p><p>"You have a pretty good throw for a pre-war Vault Dweller," he commented, once reaching him.</p><p>"Mercenary," he started, and Mac joined in, "and General of the Minutemen. Yeah, yeah."</p><p>Once the older man was finished with his work he held a little pouch out towards his partner. "Wow, splitting the loot even though I didn't do any of the work."</p><p>"You watched my back in case of anything happening. That helped enough," the other replied, and just continued walking. He shrugged, accepting what was given to him with little complain and followed the man.</p><p>__________</p><p>Just like Malcom had predicted, they reached the large settlement by noon. There were walls around Sanctuary, and a big gate greeted them after crossing the bridge with turrets over a small river. The General waved at the woman on top of a guard tower, who nodded back and walked down the steps to open the gate. MacCready was impressed by the sight before him. Of course the place didn't look perfect, with most colours on the houses faded, rubble still here and there. But it was obvious there was a striving community here, with houses built of wood, beds and other furniture inside. Even electricity.</p><p>"Wow, this looks awesome," he hid how impressed he was by using a monotone voice. He was still a little wary of his boss due to the last couple days, and he didn't want to lick his ass.</p><p>"You don't sound very convinced of yourself," Malcom stated, putting his gun back in its holster on his hip, "Which is fine. Though I am very sure that you're gonna like the bar here. Mentioning it, let's head for a drink." The man was really not able to hold still right now, was he? MacCready was about to follow, but something made him stop. </p><p>"You probably should think twice about getting shitfaced, unless you like acting like a total jerk." <em>Pff, as if that guy will use me again! Not this time.</em></p><p>Malcom turned around, confused.</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"Oh, I dunno, you telling me what a shitty person I am, and how bad my life is. While you shouldn't even talk, being in the same boat now!" MacCready pointed a finger at the man accusingly.</p><p>"What? Did I say that yesterday? What exactly did I say?" He stepped closer, seemingly shocked, even a little scared, because he didn't know the full story, and had been involved.</p><p>But the sniper wasn't having it, despite knowing better, knowing that the man hadn't been in control: "Oh, don't pretend you don't know what you said! I am nothing more than a hired killer, a poor bastard! Well, guess what? For you I should probably stay that way for you, so here: you're right!" He almost yelled. He was angry to be nothing more than this title to this man.</p><p>Malcom bit his lower lip. He had really fucked up. Again. Like he always did. This thought had been creeping through his mind for a while, but he couldn't explain his sudden pessimism. Did he used to be so hopeless? Well, there had been the flashback with Andy, and that showed him what an asshat he was. And it seemed like this wasn't even the full fucking story.</p><p>"Mac, I-" he started, but the merc interrupted, demanding: "Don't call me that!" That hurt. He was abandoned by a friend yet again, because he seemed to have a loose mouth. Foul one, too. He swallowed hard, but it still felt like a stone was stuck in his throat.</p><p>"MacCready, I'm sorry for what I said, I didn't mean it. Whatever I said.. you gotta see it was just some drunk man rambling." He tried to explain that the man was not just a killer. He was a human, with feelings. No matter if he had a shitty life. What the fuck did he say? Why did he say this stuff? It wasn't even what he felt. MacCready seemed so nice. No, not seemed, he was nice. He had helped him up until now, and he repaid him with insults. There was a knife in his heart, and it was himself who put it there. Who twisted it around.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah. You don't gotta lie to me. I will still watch your back, since you're the only client there right now, but just... leave me alone right now, will you?" Mac sighed, walking past his boss and along the road with its cracked asphalt, searching for the bar the other had mentioned earlier.</p><p>Malcom stood there for a while longer, staring at the spot where his partner had just been standing. He felt so guilty. But he deserved it. He knew it. He was good with words when needing to be. When the occasion was right. But let him slip once, and it was Game Over.</p><p>”General!” He heard someone yell, and turned around, even if talking to Preston was one of his least favorite tasks at the moment. He had to. He was the General of the Minutemen. So the man forced the frown that planted itself on his face away, stood straighter, more stable. <br/>“General, good day.. woah, uh, have you gotten taller?”<br/>“Good day, Garvey. How is the wall on the west-side coming along? Are there more guards to make up for the lack of extra protection?” He didn't want to talk about his height.</p><p>The man nodded, content to bring his friend good news. But the other didn’t look very happy. He looked exhausted. Tired. <strike>Sad.</strike> Nah, he wouldn’t be sad. At least there wasn’t a reason to be, not one Preston could see. "Well, General, what is your plan for now?" "You will give me an update on Sanctuary. Come with me to my office, please."</p><p>The two walked over to the house across the Rosa residence, where Sturges and the Long family lived now, and Malcom unlocked the door and stepping in by leaning down a little to not hit his head again, his limbs feelings heavy, despite knowing that he had lost some weight during the day; he always got thinner when alcohol was involved, it seemed. Weeks ago when he had gotten tipsy with Piper at the bar the Bobrov's brothers owned, the next day he was able to see less stomach than before. It bothered him, considering he was already skinny. A twig.</p><p>But he was daydreaming again, and he had shit to do. He shook his head to clear the fog that had made itself present around it, and sat down on the kitchen chair.</p><p>"Alright, Garvey, what's the news?" He asked, taking a few sheets of paper from the small stack he had collected from around the places he had been at.</p><p>The man obliged, setting down his hat and gun on the table before sitting down across from the other. "Since your last visit, five more settlers have arrived. We are lacking beds, but luckily not the space, since a few people have been helping with building houses while you were gone." Malcom wrote down the important facts while listening. "Then there is the slight lack of food. We got our own crops established, as well as some packaged stuff, but the people would be happier about meat once in a while."</p><p>The next few things were pleasing enough, with the water purifier still being intact, the turrets all in good shape (at least as far Garvey could tell) and no recent raider attack.</p><p>"Alright, about the food problem: send someone you deem strong and smart enough out there. Better, send two. They can go hunting. There are enough bloatflies. Maybe even some mongrels. That is their new job then, so make sure the capacity for work isn't lacking anywhere else. Tomorrow I will meet the new settlers, and make sure they aren't some spies from some raider group. And I will also take care of the bed problem tomorrow. I'm sure in Concord are still some mattresses left. Do we have some brahmin running around here? That would help greatly to transport the things back here."</p><p>"Yes, there is one."</p><p>Good, everything was going as it was supposed to. But he still felt horrible, and tense. He needed to fix that, before he would burnout. "You can leave now. I will take care of some things here," was his last order, the Minuteman nodding and getting back up, grabbing his things and leaving.</p><p>Malcom rested his elbows on the table, his hands hiding the frustration on his face. He knew what he had to do now, and he didn't like it. Didn't like how he felt like hiding it- meaning that it was something he was afraid to be judged about. But he needed it. So he grabbed a few papers, his notes, a pen, and the jet he had found the other day.</p><p>The vault dweller went to his bedroom with heavy steps. He had blocked the windows some time ago, with wooden planks. Their intent had been to protect, to not be shot from outside, but now it hid him from others' view. He threw his exhausted body onto the double bed, the items sprawled out over it now with him.</p><p>Why was he such an asshole? To those he liked? Even Preston seemed like someone he trusted, and all he did was bark orders at him. He felt like he wasn't grateful enough, or at least didn't show it. Same with MacCready. He was happy about the night two days ago. Was grateful for the time the spent together, because he enjoyed the man's jokes, his company. His person.</p><p>"Oh, Mr. MacQuoid, you sack of shit," he mumbled, leading the little plastic inhaler to his mouth, breathing in deeply, and just leaning back. There was the familiarity of brighter colours that wanted to make him blink constantly, the feeling of his inner worries being left behind while he mentally ran ahead of them. He smiled lightly, basking in the lies he was able to tell himself in this short moment. But the effect didn't last long enough. In a rush, time was catching up to him, and so did his guilt. It felt like he was being hit by a train that he didn't see but in the last second, causing him to sit up and stare at the boarded up wall across, his breath heavy and skin layered thinly with sweat.</p><p>This had barely been enough.</p><p> </p><p>He needed more.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Sweet J tooth and Longing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>MacCready notices something odd about his boss, and he is determined to find out.<br/>He feels the need to help, especially after finding out that he was relatable to him: having lost his family.<br/>But he doesn't expect to find Malcom up in the old Vault when he just wouldn't let himself be seen for days.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malcom MacQuoid, General of the Minutemen. He was there to help anyone that needed it. Helped everyone around him, but not himself.</p><p>MacCready felt some kind of lack of empathy and understanding was bugging the man about his own person. He had told him he hated himself, for not being able to find his family. But the merc saw deeper than the words Malcom had shared with him. This self-hate was deeply rooted, and of course after only knowing the man for a short while he wouldn't get it. Yet. He wanted to help him even if he could be a real dick.</p><p>The rest of the day was spent in the bar. He really didn't want to go back just yet, still feeling a little upset about earlier. But he was getting tired, and the bourbon wasn't helping much. So he would need to find a space to crash soon. And the only place he knew, where he would feel comfortable, was somewhere without these strangers; aka his boss' house. At least he thought he would have one.</p><p>The sniper sighed, anticipating the meet-up with his boss with a lack of motivation, and got up off the barstool. He grabbed his rifle and made his way outside the bar, the empty market space around a giant tree awaiting him. It was already evening, and most settlers were inside, only a few standing behind the shops selling clothes, food and even a few Stimpaks. This place had everything one could wish for out in the Commonwealth. He trudged along the street, looking for a sign of Preston or even Malcom to tell him where to go. And he found his boss.</p><p>He was standing next to a trader, but they were mostly blocked from view by the heavily-packed brahmin, so he couldn't see what they were trading, if trading at all, since sharing information about places could also be an option. He stepped over, a little curious about the goods, seeing how on edge Malcom seemed. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking around without moving his head too much to not draw attention to them. As MacCready got closer Malcom quickly closed the zipper of his backpack and filled the cap-pouch of the woman with whatever she had wanted him to pay.</p><p>"Oh, hey, Mac- Cready," he greeted, an unsure smile on his face. He had wanted to only say his nickname, but due to the fight earlier had referred to his working partner with his full surname. "Do you need something?" The woman began to walk off, her brahmin following her.</p><p>The sniper shrugged, watching Malcom throw his backpack on and walk back to a house he had just passed. He quickly tagged along, having to walk a little faster with his boss' quick pace and long legs. If the thing two days ago would repeat, should he call the man 'daddy long legs'? MacCready chuckled to himself, and laughed outright again when the man once more hit his head against the doorframe when stepping into his house.</p><p>"You really don't learn, do you?" Mac commented, finding the display even funnier than the first time it happened.</p><p>"I am determined to get this bruise I talked about. I feel like the right shade of purple will really accent the colour of my eyes."</p><p>Malcom gave his partner a sign to close the door behind himself, then set the bag of mysterious contents down on the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. "You want something to eat, or drink?" MacCready sat down on the couch that stood next to the door, propping his feet up on the little coffee table in front of it.</p><p>"Oh, sure. I am awaiting the promised Fancy Lad Snack Cakes, but I wouldn't mind a Nuka-Cola to wash them down with either," he leaned back, his hands behind his head.</p><p>The sniper looked around the living room/ kitchen. The sofa he was sitting on looked as clean as it could get in this time, the coffee table being decorated with some vase, but no real flowers being in it. They looked like plastic, and it would also explain as to why he didn't recognise the type. Across the sofa stood a TV, which of course wasn’t working without anyone supporting the channels. Next to it stood a small square dresser, what he would suspect containing alcohol, with a couple bottles of wine standing on top of it.</p><p>The kitchen still had the charms of the old world, with its oven and refrigerator, as well as a sink— whether it worked or not, Mac wasn’t sure. A wooden table with four chairs surrounding it took up the space next to the kitchen. All the holes in the walls had been fixed and boarded up, except a window behind the table.</p><p>”Nice place you have for yourself,” he commented, thanking Malcom with a little nod as he placed the requested items on the coffee table. “Thanks. And since you like this room, you will surely be delighted to know that you’ll sleep on the couch.”</p><p>Not MacCready’s wish, but he certainly wouldn’t voice his true idea about sleeping at his boss’ place. Whom he had fucked. <em>Why the sudden distance? Probably because of the fight.</em> He still felt a little guilty. After all, the man was probably still shaken up about losing his family and having no memory to help him. And as a Vault Dweller, this world must be new to him, especially since he is from before the war. MacCready realised something, and his eyes widened at his thought.</p><p>Malcom was about to leave the room, already having grabbed his bag, but the merc stopped him. All feelings of tipsiness had drained from him and he got up quickly, grabbing the man's wrist.</p><p>"Wait, if you.. know you got family, then why... why did we.. y'know? Didn't you cheat on <em>her</em> with me?" He knew she was dead, but he thought that, since the man only found himself in the world of the irradiated living weeks ago, that he was still attached, and hurt about what happened. The other looked confused, probably due to him not remembering the night he had spilled the Nuka-Cola and admitted his greatest insecurities and worries.</p><p>"I didn't think of it as cheating," he finally answered, "I know that she's gone, and I hoped my little angel would want me to move forward." His voice got quieter, more strained. "I... I didn't want to be alone, and knowing that the person I loved is gone made me search out someone else." He looked up from the ground, where his eyes had seemingly found something very interesting before, and into those of the sniper's. "But don't think that I just used you for a one time thing! I.. really...," he was searching for words, unable to voice whatever thought he had in his mind. MacCready waited patiently, not wanting to rush him, but the man suddenly just walked to the door, yelling out: "You can sleep in the bedroom, I- uh, got somewhere to go, probably for the night!"</p><p>The door slam closed that conversation. MacCready sighed, grabbing his dinner and going to the last room on the left side after looking through the first one, which turned out to be a bathroom. He wondered if there was proper plumbing, heck, maybe even warm water for a change. But that was unlikely. He would give his boss the suggestion in the morning though. He could fix things, maybe even this.</p><p>The merc sat down on the double bed, also inspecting the decorations in this room. <em>Maybe... I could take a little look around. See who my boss really is.</em> There was a dresser standing against the wall across the bed, a radio, vase with no flowers, and a camera on it. He got off the comfortable mattress and began searching through the drawer. There were just clothes in the first one, but the second drawer contained papers. Just boring stuff about managing the settlements, and- an empty jet inhaler? He didn't know his boss was into stuff like this, especially with his wish of being the flawless General. It was just one though, and maybe it had actually contained addictol.. okay, that wouldn't make it better. It was not important to the sniper if his boss took drugs, everybody in the Commonwealth did it. The only one's not liking it were those snobs over in Diamond City. At least someone like Piper. It wouldn't bother him as long as it wouldn't get out of control. He wouldn't want to pull Malcom out of risky situations only because the chems made him think he was the strongest human alive.</p><p>Next was the closet to the right of the bed. The only things it contained were some Bobbleheads, a rack for jackets, there were some shoes and- <strong>Comics</strong>! This guy seriously had comics! They didn't look too damaged, and with no pages missing. MacCready couldn't help himself as he grabbed a couple Grognak issues and laid down on the bed, not bothering to take his shoes off with his hands, but just kicked them off with his feet instead.</p><p>__________</p><p>“Hey, MacCready, right?” He heard a voice call out to him as he walked along the walls surrounding Sanctuary to keep himself occupied somehow.</p><p>Malcom hadn’t been seen in days, and he was getting worried.</p><p>He turned to face whoever had yelled his name, and found Preston Garvey, Malcom’s right hand man, standing there, a worried expression on his face.</p><p>”Hey, have you seen the General anywhere? He had wanted to go to Concord days ago, but he hasn’t turned up yet. He didn’t go alone, did he?” MacCready was confused that Garvey didn’t know where the man was either.</p><p>”No, I haven’t seen him. He just left one night and hasn’t come back since. You don’t think he’s hurt, right? Got himself shot by some raiders?”, the sniper suggested, feeling his grip on his rifle tighten. The other shook his head, saying that he didn’t think so. “We need to find him though. And quickly! The Minutemen need him. Let’s ask around if anyone has seen him.”</p><p>MacCready nodded, already walking to the marketplace, where most of the settlers would be.</p><p>The first few people he asked admitted to not having seen him. Some were also a little worried. Where would they be without their General; the person that gave them this standard of living out here in the Commonwealth? But the lady behind the pharmacy stand had seen him.</p><p>She leaned her elbows on the wooden counter, her chin propped up on her hand. Her words sounded unbothered by the situation of a man having gone missing, claiming: “Saw him walk up that way o’er there.” She pointed to the hill that lead to the Vault. The Vault.</p><p>MacCready’s eyes widened. Whatever Malcom was doing in that Vault, if he was there (and he hoped he wasn’t), it couldn’t be good! That was the Vault he had told him about. The place he had lost his family in.</p><p>MacCready thanked the woman and ran off to find his boss.</p><p>His feet felt like lead as he stomped through the dirt, his heart heavy with the worry of the worst case scenario.</p><p>
  <em>No, MacCready, he did not end his life! Let’s not think about it like that!<br/></em>
</p><p>Once reaching the little shack up on the hill, he pressed the conveniently obvious button in it, listening to the loud beeping as the platform began to rise from within the hole back up to the surface.</p><p>”He is fine! He is not chasing old demons that are not going to come back!”</p><p>He stepped on the elevator and felt the platform sink back down, lower and lower. It was dark for a little while.</p><p>
  <em>He wouldn’t do this to the Minutemen. To Garvey.</em>
</p><p><em>To me.</em><br/><br/>The deeper it went the worse of a feeling he got, like cold stones were being switched for his breakfast in his stomach.</p><p>Finally, he saw light again, the elevator having reached the bottom of the vault, revealing a short staircase that led up to a giant vault door. He walked up there silently, not sure if he should keep up his guard in case there was anything down here, or if he were to scare Malcom. The last thing he wanted was to be shot by a grieving father, surprised to see his one-night-stand suddenly walk in like “hey, you haven’t been in Sanctuary for days, thought you bit the big one, but I guess you’re kinda busy crying over someone who clearly isn’t alive anymore-“</p><p>Yeah. Bad scenario. Especially since he knew the pain of losing a loved one so well. And because he knew it, he knew what would happen if one were to lose themselves in an illusion. In their own fantasy world. It could get people killed, seeing things that aren’t there, hearing words not spoken in this world.</p><p>Through the giant vault door and down the little steel bridge he went, past another door and-</p><p>Where would he go look for Malcom? There were three ways to go; straight, left, and right.</p><p>He first opened the right one, and walked through the isles of cryo pods, all filled with dead people; all of them doomed to stay in that state unless one were to do them a last favor and bury them.</p><p>Come to think of it, barely anyone buried a corpse anymore.</p><p>MacCready had to hurry up. This could be a matter of seconds! Why was he getting sidetracked so much all of a sudden?! He wasn't scared of what he was going to see, was he?</p><p>He next went to the door that was at the end of the hallway. Stepping closer to it seemed to open the thing on its own, but before MacCready could dwell on the technology behind it, he gasped in horror.</p><p>His boss, before so charmingly handsome both with his attitude and looks, now sat cross legged in front of a pod, hugging himself in a miserable attempt to keep warm; not to mention that the closer the merc got, the louder the whispering became.</p><p>He wasn’t sure if his presence had been made obvious yet, or if the broken man was too busy with all the thoughts rushing through his head, so he cleared his throat.</p><p>Malcom was only wearing a shirt, the leather jacket having been placed around the woman’s shoulders who laid in that ice casket.</p><p>As his boss lifted his head, he was even more disappointed to see how blue his lips were, and how pale his face was —he had to get this man out of here, but carefully—, but he hated himself for not coming sooner when Malcom asked “did you say something?”, with his eyes focused as best as they could on the woman.</p><p>”Please, don’t leave. I need your opinion. I need your consultation. I..," his voice was weak and hoarse, as if his vocal chords had been frozen.</p><p>MacCready wanted to help him solve all his problems in that moment. The desperation in his eyes was too much, with his own history of suffering a similar pain.</p><p>And the first step to avoid this slippery slope of dream land: wake the dreamer up.</p><p>”Malcom,” he spoke gently, a warm hand placed on a cold shoulder, “hey, you’re going to be fine, I promise. Even if your angel isn’t there anymore, I am now here.”</p><p>”She is still here,” he responded angrily, bloodshot eyes focusing on MacCready.</p><p>His boss grabbed something from his bag, and it shocked him to see a dose of jet. His boss, seemingly the smartest or handiest man he knew, numbed his body with garbage like this. Not like everyone in the Commonwealth was doing this, but Malcom shouldn’t be so affected by it <em>if he didn’t have contact with it before.</em></p><p>“Woah, woah! Let’s not do that, boss,” he grabbed the inhaler away from him. No need to fuel his sickness. Maybe he already was addicted to this shit? MacCready wouldn’t judge him over it—</p><p>A cold, hard fist made contact with his cheek, and he stumbled back, Jet still in hand.</p><p>”Don’t you dare pretend <strong>to know what’s good for me</strong>!” (It’s mY oPInIoN!) Malcom stood up, with his probably over 6-foot height he would look intimidating. If he didn’t look like he had lost all the weight he had left on his lanky body.</p><p>”Malcom, w-have you even eaten down here? Or drunken something?” He placed a warm hand on his sore cheek. He had to calm him down somehow. A well placed jab to the shoulder would do the trick, but he didn’t want to force him out of here. He had to leave on his own.</p><p>”Malcom, please, listen to me! I know that reality is a bitch, and how wonderful it is to lose yourself in dreams of the past, but it’s not healthy!” It looked like Malcom wanted to speak up, but Mac continued: “And no, you do care about your health. You don’t see it right now, because this shit,” he held up the inhaler, “this is blinding all your care for anything. Except for that, which isn’t here anymore! I want you to take a deep breath, and tell me what you see around yourself!”</p><p>Malcom did, surprisingly. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again.</p><p>”What do you see?”</p><p>”My angel. Oh, how I must’ve disappointed her,” he mumbled, walking back to the cryo pod.</p><p>The sniper was closing the distance between them before he could stop himself, his arms wrapping around Malcom’s torso.</p><p>”Damnit, you ape! She’s.... she is <strong>dead</strong>! I’m sorry, but she is gone, and will be gone forever. The truth hurts I know, but it also hurts those who are still alive and around you, too.”</p><p>Malcom tensed at the words. Something about these words were familiar to him.</p><p>
  <em>”There are still people who care about you, honey,” a gentle voice spoke. He looked up into amber-eyes. The woman had black hair, and pale skin. An angel came to his dreams, just for him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>”That is why you should stop this behavior of self destruction.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her slender hand was placed on his, and a shock went through him at the contact. “But Angel, who does really care?— except you of course.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>”Why, your soldier comrades, Andy, and a little daughter or son. And you will have to be strong for them,” she smiled, watching as Malcom’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the reveal. “I’m going to be a father?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She nodded.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was the moment Malcom knew that he had to stop taking drugs. Having taken them ever since high school had taken a toll on him, affecting every area of his life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The reason why Andy had sent him a nurse to help him break this addiction he suffered from. One that couldn’t be cured with addictol, because he wasn’t addicted for its substance, but for numbing something within himself; a problem that ran deeper than the physical level could.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So one day, he opened the door to his house for the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She looked like someone God had sent for him, and she helped him even more than the man in heaven! She was smart, funny and patient.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She was oh-so patient with him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whenever he had a breakdown because he couldn’t take any Jet, she was there, hugging him, telling him how many people would miss him. And whenever she said it, he didn’t care if the names meant anything to <strong>him</strong>. They mattered because <strong>she</strong> said them. “Those around you suffer from your pain as well, Malcom. They want you to be happy. So, please understand why we are doing this. I’m only trying to help, I will aid you to your substance-abuse-free life. But you have to decide what you want to do.</em>
</p><p>“Malcom,” he heard a voice call him back to reality. He had a flashback, but surprisingly no headache followed. Maybe he was still too high.</p><p>”MacCready?” He asked, feeling warm arms around him, protecting him.</p><p>”Are you finally back? Or do you want to punch me again?"</p><p>The Vault Dweller couldn't help but chuckle. As MacCready was about to remove his limbs again, Malcom gripped them tightly, asking: "Could you please hold on for a while longer? I feel like I'm going to fall apart if you let go."</p><p>He didn't need an answer. The action of the sniper tightening his grip was enough to give him all confirmation and comfort he needed.</p><p>They stood there for a while, everything quiet around them except a constant dripping that sounded from the water that fell from the ceiling.</p><p>Malcom finally found his voice again, found the strength to tell MacCready about what he had seen: "I had a flashback just now." The sniper didn't say anything, letting him speak.</p><p>"It was a dream of my wife. She used to be a nurse, taking care of me, a drug addict. We fell in love, and had a child together. She helped me get over my substance abuse, told me that there were people who cared when I was consumed by self-hate."</p><p>He swallowed dryly.</p><p>"But I see now she is gone. And I will have to handle this problem, for my son, and for those who care about me."</p><p>"And I will be there with you, boss. I know how it is to lose someone. But if there was one thing I learned over the years of her being gone, then it is to accept and let go, and not keep on grieving; it is going to keep you back in life otherwise."</p><p>A few seconds more passed in silence, both too exhausted to really say much more. Malcom gently pulled the shorter man's arms away, took a step closer to the pod containing his dead spouse, and took her hand.</p><p>"Accept and let go, huh?" he asked, lifting the limp hand up to his lips and kissing it gently, before slipping off the golden ring around her finger. He looked up into her dead eyes. "Thank you for everything, Nora."</p><p>With that he lifted the switch to close the pod, leaving the leather jacket back with her, a gesture that gave Malcom the feeling that she carried something with him even up in the clouds.</p><p>MacCready had grabbed his bag from the floor, waiting patiently for them to finally get out of here. As they walked down the hallway, the General asked: "Do I still smell like vanilla?"</p><p>"You smell like you haven't washed yourself in days."</p><p>"Oh, Mac, there you go breaking my heart."</p><p>"And you burning my sense of smell."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Dangerous mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>MacCready thinks that things are going to be better.<br/>If he only knew better.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry for the long wait, guys, but school and other personal interests and hobbies had me in their grasp. Not anymore though, and I hope it stays that way, because I am enjoying that people are enjoying this, and I want to continue to write.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Good Morning, Malcom.”</p><p>The only reaction that elicited from that greeting was a groan, an attempt to roll over, and a mumbled “five more minutes”.</p><p>But MacCready wouldn’t have that. It was important to get up and do things, keep busy, instead of lying in bed all day and mope around.</p><p>What he had seen yesterday, the horrible state his boss had been in, it was the kick he himself needed to start handling the man a little rougher.</p><p>”Nope, no sleeping through the day! You’ve got Minutemen-business to do, and some Jet to work out of your system,” MacCready pulled the blanket off of him, smiling when the other curled up to keep warm; a rather difficult task with no clothes on.</p><p>”Mac, c’mon,” he begged, voice still sleep-drunken.</p><p>”What?” He leaned over a little, pretending to listen closer to Malcom’s plea, “you want me to get you some cold water for a bed-shower? Of course!” He was already half-way out the door when Malcom sat up, yelling: “N-no! Fine, I’ll get up.”</p><p>Malcom set his bare feet on the cold floor beneath, goose-bumps visible on his arms, spreading out further to his legs.</p><p>MacCready frowned, seeing the results of days without food on his boss’ already lanky body. The ribs could be seen through pale soft skin, the collarbone seemingly trying to escape its host’s skin prison.</p><p>”You gotta start eating more. Deathclaws will be able to use you as a toothpick!” MacCready shook his head, both in worry and disappointment.</p><p>”Sorry, I’ve always been the.. lightweight,” he got up, walking to his dresser to grab some clothes that would be fitting for a scavenging mission for mattresses.</p><p>“I was bullied for it before. I think that was how.. <strong>it</strong> started,” he looked down, some strands of hair falling over his eyes. “That’s what it looked like in the few memories I got, anyways.” He shrugged, and began putting on some road leathers. And as if what he had just said hadn’t been voiced he asked: “So, how was your morning?”</p><p>Change of topic. He got that. But this wasn’t an option. He had heard of something called therapists from some pre-war ghouls. People who listened to other people’s problems and helped them through tough times. Not his slice of cake, but surely something Malcom needed at the moment.</p><p>”No, no. Let’s not talk about me. I want to know how you’re feeling,” he sat down on the bed, took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t.. want to see you like this ever again, Mal. I want to see that you’re getting better."</p><p>Malcom watched MacCready with an analysing gaze, as if he expected the other to start laughing and reveal it was just a joke. But nothing like that came out of the sniper's mouth. No foul words. And thus Malcom sat down next to his partner, looking down at the floor. </p><p>"So," the other finally spoke up after a few minutes. MacCready had been getting nervous if his prying for past trauma wouldn't work and actually cause his boss to lash out. "What do we do then? You want me to start lifting weights, eat more?"</p><p>Mac raised a brow, finding the ideas not too bad. "Yeah, why not? I mean.. would it help you gain some weight?"<br/>"I actually don't know. Before the war I only could lose weight, not put it on, no matter how much I ate. And the conditions now don't really allow one to get fat, now do they?"</p><p>There was hesitation on Malcom's side, in his next words and actions. The taller man gently placed an arm around MacCready's shoulders, pulled him closer and rested his chin on top of the shorter one's head. "I feel like trying though. I don't know the outcome, but I wont ever know until trying."</p><p>"Wow," the merc answered, his face feeling a lot hotter now that he was consciously leaning against the other, "sounds pretty inspirational for a junkie."</p><p>"You'd be surprised how much a love interest can make you do."</p><p>MacCready closed his eyes, enjoying the clean smell again since Mal finally took a "shower" once they got back home. <em>Home</em>. Did he feel like this was home to him? He hadn't felt home somewhere ever since- </p><p>"<strong>Hold up!</strong>", the sniper yelped, eyes widening and his head shooting up to look into the icy blues of his boss, "what do you mean with <em>love interest</em>?!"</p><p>__________</p><p>So over to Concord MacCready, Preston Garvey and General MacQuoid went, a brahmin following their footsteps to aid them in carrying all the mattresses back.</p><p>The mission went easy, as in the first couple houses, until Malcom stepped into the third, seeing a sleeping raider. On a mattress. A mattress he wanted.</p><p>He crouched down, signalling the other two to stand there and be quiet. With light steps he sneaked in, slowly creeping towards the resting form. When he was just behind the figure he grabbed his combat knife that had been tucked away in a sheath on his thigh, led his hand to the space where the back of the raider's neck ended and head began, and with one quick motion ended his life. He rolled the body off the mattress and whispered to the other two: "Mac, look around if there is another raider close, and you, Preston, help me with the thing."</p><p>MacCready wasn't bothered with what Malcom had just done, but Garvey appeared a little shook. He crawled over quietly in case there was someone else nearby and helped the General carry it to the brahmin. "General..," he spoke up, and the man looked at him, but interrupted: "Look the mess I made of the mattress. I hope we can clean it. None of the settlers would want to sleep on this." He also went back to the raider and grabbed the shotgun he had carried; nice, even with a long barrel. The settlers could use this. There were a few shells, too.</p><p>Garvey had something on his mind. An ethical question, but he left it unspoken. There was not much use arguing with Malcom, especially if it concerned something he had already done. And especially if it regarded raiders. But didn't he feel some kind of guilt for killing someone in their sleep? He supposed it was more peaceful that way, but Malcom had just... not hesitated at all. It was a little concerning.</p><p>"Things here are clear," the sniper called out, and Malcom looked around. Not that he didn't trust MacCready, but why would there be just one raider? When he first came to Concord weeks ago there had been a bunch of raiders, both outside the museum and inside of it.</p><p>"Let us go to the Concord Speakeasy next. Last time I scavenged the place there had been a bunch of beds," the General ordered, and they walked down the the street towards the Museum of Freedom. MacCready looked around, hands gripping the rifle in his hands in a relaxed manner.</p><p>"It is quiet here... too quiet," the sniper commented, chuckling to himself.</p><p>"Well, then let us make some racket!" his boss announced loudly. Preston instinctively raised his gun, in case someone heard him.</p><p>"General, we shouldn't attract half of the Commonwealth to our whereabouts." MacCready didn't seem to mind, just continuing to walk next to his boss as chill as before.</p><p>"Oh, c'mon, Garvey. A little brawling with raiders never had killed anybody... not me anyways."</p><p>"General.. I'm beginning to question your sense of humour."</p><p><em>Me, too</em>, the tall man thought to himself, but kept grinning, sure that his story was not going to end so quickly. And certainly not due to some dirty raiders.</p><p> </p><p>The Speakeasy wasn't far so it didn't take much longer. Malcom told Garvey to wait outside next to the brahmin in case anything was coming by to take a bite out of it.</p><p>What the vault dweller did not expect was to confidently open the door, take a couple of steps in, and be met by at least six pairs of eyes. The color on his face drained quickly, as if his body was subconsciously trying to become invisible by matching the faded wall behind him. Then he ran back outside, slamming the door shut just as a couple bullets blew little holes into the wood.</p><p>MacCready ran back to a windowless building to have an advantage in a fight against those raiders. It seemingly used to be shop at a corner, but that wasn't important right now.</p><p>While the sniper got into position, using the time until the dirty raiders finally would open the door to let themselves get shot, Garvey had pulled the brahmin out of the way and hid it out of sight by letting it stand in a corner behind a wall connected to the building with the raider-nest. Malcom was running to an overturned car, jumping behind it at just the right moment, as the very first thing the woman who stepped out did was shoot around aimlessly in hope to hit any target. But she was quickly taken care of with a bullet flying through her skull, painting the side of her face with red liquid petals. Her body slumped back against the man that was exiting just after her. He also got shot on sight, this time by the General. He wondered how he had managed to hit his target at all, with his hands shaking. His breath got a little heavier, and the shaking worse. The man he shot at had only been hit in the leg, him now letting out a loud scream, falling to the ground. From this angle MacCready was not able to shoot at him, and Garvey was with the brahmin.</p><p>They were outnumbered. Surely there were more in the Speakeasy, up in the little rooms. That would set it to a relation of three against at least five. They were outnumbered.</p><p>
  <em>They were outnumbered. No chance they could go up against them. Malcom's vision became blurrier towards the edges, in a way as if he was going by 150 miles per hour. And his body surely felt that way, too. His fingers were tingling. Shaking. Everything around him was shaking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He let out a growl. Everything in him screamed to kill. Kill all these inhumane bastards! <strong>Bastards</strong>!</em>
</p><p><em>He jumped out from behind the car, his .44 holstered at his hip, and hands now </em> <em>holding the shotgun he had taken earlier in a death grip. He climbed over his cover in a smooth motion, and once close enough, shot the raider in the chest. Some of them were behind the counter. And the top floor made him an easy target for those upstairs, so he ran to the counter, towards the enemies. He grabbed his .44 from its holster and shot at the two crouching people sloppily. He didn't see, couldn't see were he aimed. Didn't care where he aimed. He just wanted to shoot, kill.</em></p><p>
  <em>They were outnumbered. At least three against five. He heard a yell, didn't know where it came from. Didn't understand what it said. Didn't want to understand what the voice was saying.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A hot stinging pain shot through his hip, and his body demanded to kneel down. But he refused. He was not going to kneel before anyone!</em>
  <br/>
  <em>He turned around lifting the shotgun while dropping his pistol and shot the raider in the head. He crouched down to replace the shells in his shotgun, he would pick up his other gun later. He wanted to see the brains splattered on the floor, against the walls. Make god realise that he had done a shit job protecting the innocent and good people in the world!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>More shots, but none aimed at him. He looked up from behind the counter, seeing a couple raiders run out the door, a third hiding next to the door. He stood up. More shots, screams. But not near him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He got up, jumped over the counter quietly and kicked the raider in the back, pressing their torso against the floor. The man yelled out for help. Or was he cursing at him? They were outnumbered. At least three against five.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yeah, beg for your life, asshole! You got anything to say for yourself?!" He heard someone yell. It was his voice. But so foreign. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He kicked him so the other rolled onto his back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Mal, stop!"</em>
</p><p>Three against five. Three against five. <strong>Three against five.</strong></p><p>A heavy weight pushed him down to the floor. No gasp of surprise left him, his vocal chords feeling dead.</p><p>"General, get your shit together!" Familiar voice. <em>But he didn't know it, did he?</em></p><p>His mouth opened, his voice suddenly back, but his body didn't obey him: "<strong>Three against five! Damnit, we're outnumbered! Three against five!</strong>"</p><p>Hands were holding him down, making him thrash around more and more. <em>They had him! He was going to die!</em></p><p>"MacCready! He-Help!" The pain he had felt earlier in his hip was back, but it felt dull. Everything around him looked so dull.</p><p>Someone gently patted his cheek, his eyes focusing on the person in front of him. The blurry edges in his vision were slowly fading, but the blood was rushing in his ears, his heart beating loudly and pumping up into his throat; it felt like that at least. But Malcom wouldn't be surprised to know that his organs had been reordered with his growth spurt.</p><p>MacCready, looking pretty shaken up by something, whispered as if any loud noises would make him go deaf: "Hey, Mal. It's okay. I-I'm here.. just relax, alright? We'll get you to the infirmary as quickly as possible."</p><p>He sounded so scared. And that caused Malcom's heart to feel like someone had a tight grip on it. He felt like it had something to do with him. But he didn't understand what. His eyelids were so heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake. He lifted his head as well as he could. The stinging pain in his hip returned. His left arm hurt even worse, with the slightest movement feeling like someone was stomping on it, with just as much mobility to the limb. But the worst injury he assessed was the switchblade stuck in his abdomen. A little below the solar plexus. "Well, I guess," he coughed, smiling at the two men who were looking down at him, "whatever just happened was a pretty <em>sharp</em> display, huh?"</p><p>Garvey didn't even roll his eyes at that comment. Was he fucked? Was he really going to die now? By raiders hands, and a cheap knife, too?</p><p>He closed his eyes, just wanting to sleep this bad reality off like a hangover.</p><p>With the knowledge of Nora dead, and being a hopeless jet addict, he would usually give up at this point, not feeling like putting effort into living. But a hand gripped his own weak one tightly, and knew whose hand it was.</p><p>
  <em>Yeah, I have someone else to care about now. How could I forget?</em>
</p><p>Before slipping into the painless nothingness of his mind, he squeezed MacCready's hand back, just as a last sign to show he was not going to go this way.</p><p><em>Not </em> <em>today.</em></p><p>__________</p><p>"Mama Murphy, you said.. saw ..thing?"</p><p>"Yes, Preston. And I think it is.. and the two of you to know. To understand what had happened."</p><p>What was going on? His body felt so heavy. Where was he? Where was MacCready?</p><p>"M..Mac?" he forced the word, the familiar name out of his mind. He wanted to beg for someone to wake him up out of this hazy stupor he felt himself in.</p><p>Suddenly all was quiet, then there were footsteps coming closer, something creaked beside him. He tried to move his arms in an attempt to shake off the sleep feeling in his body, but it only caused him to gasp as the slightest movement brought raw pain, his left arm feeling as if it was hanging on him on its last hinge and about to fall off.</p><p>"Relax, Mal, you're safe." MacCready. MacCready's concerned voice.</p><p>He didn't know how many people were in the room, if they even were in a room. They could also be outside, with all settlers there to gawk and laugh at him.</p><p>"All.. leave," he demanded weakly, but with his right hand gripped the one holding it tighter, signalling for all to go, except him. A short moment passed, all so quiet it felt like he had gone back to sleep. But the warmth of MacCready's hand pinned him to reality, if only to a certain degree.</p><p>"What is it, Mal?" he asked. And he wanted to answer. Wanted to say so much about everything that had happened between them, but settled for a simple: "'m freezing."</p><p>"I'll get you another blanket."</p><p>That was the thing Malcom wanted least right now... or at least not the one thing he found most important.</p><p>"No.. stay here.."</p><p>Silence.</p><p>"You should go back to sleep."</p><p>"Lay with.. me."</p><p>"You're lucky you got a double bed, and I still like you after what you did," the sniper commented, but obliged anyway. What had he done this time to fuck everything up?</p><p>"'m.. sorry."</p><p>Warmth enveloped him, the only kind of warmth that humans could produce when being held close by a loved other.</p><p> </p><p>"I know."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Bloodshot blues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Finding out that his boss was more hurt than expected did not make their situation easier.<br/>Actually, everything was just getting worse.<br/>Worse, and it would end that way.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You better watch out. Dark ending here.<br/>Suicide mention. If you could be triggered by it, please don't read.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MacCready watched Malcom’s sleeping figure. He had been sitting in a chair he had brought in from the kitchen for days. He didn’t really get up to do anything except to eat, or put fresh bandages on his boss’ wounds. Or put another IV bag on the rack.</p><p>Or walk around the room, worried thoughts invading his mind. They just wouldn’t leave him alone.</p><p>What had happened in Concord a few days ago... it was scary.</p><p>One moment, Malcom was cool and collected, next he suddenly ran right into the fight, with no worries about himself or anyone else. He had screamed and growled, letting out all built-up frustrations that seemingly had collected for a while now.</p><p>His boss had never been one to kill people so.. violently. He usually preferred a clean headshot, but that time he had shot everywhere but there.</p><p>Not to mention that... he had almost been killed by the man he liked. Had trusted, at least to a certain degree. He had aimed his rifle at a raider that had been fleeing the Speakeasy, then he was kicked to the ground, Malcom’s gruff voice yelling at him as if he had been one of the raiders!</p><p>He had almost pissed himself, the barrel of the shotgun shoved right against his face. He had screamed for him to stop.</p><p>
  <em>Mal, stop! What the hell are you doing?!</em>
</p><p>Only thanks to Garvey’s quick actions was he still alive.</p><p>MacCready wasn’t sure how he was able to forgive Malcom. But he did.</p><p>Probably because of how confused and out of his mind he was, declaring they were outnumbered, with none of the baddies still standing. Because of how he begged for his presence when he finally did come back to his senses.</p><p>Only for the poor bastard to be thrown into cold water at the sight of his wounds; stab wound in the stomach area, shots to the hip, a broken arm. That one seemed like such a mystery. One of the raiders were armed with a baseball bat, maybe? A tire iron?</p><p>Maybe it was Garvey’s hard push to the floor. People could fall unfortunate.</p><p>But it didn't matter much to MacCready anymore. All he wanted was for Malcom to wake up again, and that while his head was clear. Not like a while ago, when he was barely conscious, and still seemed so afraid until he had gotten next to him, comforted him.</p><p>As he was about to leave the room to grab himself a Nuka-Cola, he heard a groan coming from behind him. He turned on his heels, part of his mind already trying to not get his hopes up by telling him the man was only making sounds in his sleep. But no, his boss was awake. His eyes opened slowly, then he began to move his arms and legs, testing if everything was still working.</p><p>"MacCready?" he asked, his head dropping to the side to lean onto the pillow more comfortably, and now his eyes being directed at him. Bloodshot blues.</p><p>The sniper's body moved forward on its own accord, sitting down on the mattress and gently holding Malcom's good hand.</p><p>"Good afternoon, boss. How're you feeling?" </p><p>He opened his mouth to voice his thoughts, but no sounds came out. He appeared to be thinking about something. And whatever he was thinking about made him close his mouth again. He took his hand from MacCready's and sat up, his partner already moving to stop him from such a strenuous task. "Hey, hey, take it easy there, Mal."</p><p>He whispered something in response. Of course the other didn't hear, and so he asked the other to repeat. And Mac wished he hadn't asked.</p><p>"Don't call me that, please. I... get Garvey. You are dismissed after that."</p><p>The shorter man wasn't sure what had his panties in such a twist. Suddenly asking for Garvey of all people! Oh god, was he jealous?</p><p>"Uh, yeah... sure." He was trying to make it sound like he didn't care, but his hanging shoulders might have given his sadness and confusion away anyways.</p><p> </p><p>Malcom didn't have to wait long for Garvey to arrive, his official right-hand man probably ecstatic to know he was awake. Mama Murphy was with him, but MacCready didn't come back with them. Good.</p><p>He couldn't look at the man's face a second longer after realising what he had almost done it him; all in connection to knowing what he had already done to him in the span of a few days. He was truly a monster.</p><p>"Good afternoon, General!" the man smiled, but Malcom didn't greet him back in same fashion. He just commanded to know: "What happened, Garvey?"</p><p>The smile clearly vanished after that.</p><p>Mama Murphy sat down on the chair that MacCready must have brought there and picked up the conversation for the Minutemen commander.</p><p>"Kid, have you heard of a phenomenon called Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder?"</p><p>Malcom bit his lower lip, but otherwise kept his cool. Sure he fucking had. But he wouldn't have guessed he would ever get it. He thought he would die long before managing to catch this mental disease.</p><p>"General, you have attacked a group of raiders in a rather... reckless way, and almost shot MacCready," Garvey added. And god, would he have loved to yell at him that he knew. He knew he was a horrible person. Always fucking things up ever since he was born. And this world let the worse of it get out for all others to see!</p><p>Mama Murphy pulled him out of the trance of self-loathing thoughts clouding his mind, offering support by telling him: "You didn't have control of yourself there, kid. I saw how the fog in your mind covered up all rational thoughts. And I can feel what you are thinking about now. And I can only advise against it. Many people in this world would mis-" "<strong>Bullshit</strong>! I heard enough. I am tired now and want to rest a little more. Please leave." The last order didn't sound much like it, but more like a helpless plea. He felt like a caged animal, surrounded by his bad decisions. He knew he had a son to find, but he couldn't remember much of him, nor of his wife. Not enough to care anyway.</p><p>And that only added to the self-hatred coursing through his veins. He deserved worse than death.</p><p> </p><p>When he lifted his eyes he noticed that everyone was gone, and that he actually didn't know how much time had passed either.</p><p>He looked around, noticing the IV bag connected to his wrist. "What a waste of resources."</p><p>Malcom pulled it out after stopping the drip, and got up on shaking legs. He still felt weak (<em>pathetic</em>). The few steps to the dresser to grab his .44 and an inhaler of jet were exhausting, his body and mind feeling disconnected and not in harmony. Unbalanced.</p><p>He dropped back onto the bed, feet propped on the cold floor.</p><p>"So, this is it... I will die alone, and it feels like.. it doesn't feel that much of a surprise to me. All I do is hurt, destroy, bring concern that shouldn't be there. I deserve this."</p><p>His hand shook lightly under the weight of the gun. Still it felt awfully light at the same time, as if this object would forever bring a solution to all his problems. But he knew he was kidding himself.</p><p>
  <em>Suicide was never a solution.</em>
</p><p>He guided the inhaler of jet to his mouth, and took a deep breath in, all his senses suddenly ultra-aware. Noticing the scratching in his throat, the numb feeling in his fingertips.</p><p>
  <em>Not for the smart anyway.</em>
</p><p>He knew this death would take long for him, with the slowing of time due to the drug combined with a bullet to the head. It would hurt, and that was what he deserved. The barrel of the gun was shoved into his mouth so the opening pressed against his gums.</p><p>
  <em>Too bad I was always stupid.</em>
</p><p>__________</p><p>"<strong>Why the fuck would you ever think of doing </strong><b>this?!</b>" MacCready was furious, shocked, sad. Every bitter emotion coursed through his veins and he wanted to yell at his boss for acting this stupid. He wanted to let him know what an idiot he had been, but that MacCready forgave him all of it. That they would solve all their problems together, because he knew how horrible it was to lose family, to know that you might never see your son again. He knew of bad decisions and how they affected one.</p><p>"<strong>Why, Malcom? Why would you do </strong><b>this!</b>" He screamed at the top of his lungs, hands gripping the other's shirt tightly.</p><p>The bloodshot blues from this afternoon were already paling, and he missed their piercing gaze. He missed how Malcom would just stare at him to find out what he was thinking about.</p><p>"<strong>I know the hurt, and the hatred, you .... asshole! But that didn't give you the right to leave your family behind, to leave the Minutemen standing all </strong><b>alone against the Commonwealth! You don't think that all of us are suffering, and we are all trying to make better decisions for ourselves, so that we eventually have it better than the day before?</b>" His throat felt raw. His eyes threatened to spill the tears collecting in them, but he used all the energy he had left to keep them at bay.</p><p>He bit his lower lip harshly, and looked back up into his former boss' pale face. Even in death he didn't look peaceful. How could one die peacefully with so much sadness inside of them?</p><p>But MacCready also knew why even ending his life wasn't anything but liberating; he had wanted to make himself suffer. The empty jet was indication enough on what that dumbass had done to himself.</p><p>"You seriously thought that making yourself suffer enough would make up for all you would leave behind?"</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. MacQuoid."</p><p> </p><p>"It doesn't."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Announcement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Not a chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I just wanted to explain as to why this had such an abrupt ending.</p><p>An illogical one even, maybe.</p><p>I just lacked motivation all of a sudden for god knows what reason (INTP).</p><p>So barely any ideas were found in my head, and I do not like leaving fan fictions open forever, so I did something I don't like either: made a bad ending.</p><p>Just got around to writing this now, because of... yes, I have no clue.</p><p> </p><p>I do want to say, I did enjoy this character and there was much potential. Maybe he will be alive in another universe.</p><p> </p><p>Sincerely, shurb</p>
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